


Caesura

by seastarved



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War I, Angst, F/M, Gen, Romance, War, warning: blood, warning: graphic descriptions of injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-19 15:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 79,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7367557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seastarved/pseuds/seastarved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caesura /sɪˈzjʊərə/ n. In poetry, a rhythmic pause in a poetic line or a sentence where the reader stops to breathe. </p><p>England, 1915, the world is having a war to end all wars. But, in the midst of the nightmare that seems to encompass their every hour, two people find one another and learn to how to breathe again.</p><p>(WW1 War Artist AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_Storybrooke, Maine_

_Summer, 2016_

"Oi! Belle!"

The ball of paper hits her on her temple before bouncing away off to the side, Will's voice getting closer, his steps echoing in the empty gallery as he calls for her again.

And yet it isn't enough for her to tear her eyes away from the painting.

It sits against the wall in front of where she kneels, her fingers outstretched, reaching but not quite touching the soft dips and crests of the brush strokes on the canvas. Her eyes following the gaze of the woman in the picture, following the curve of her smile, the gentle cascade of her hair about her shoulders, the colour of her eyes as she looks up and smiles at something outside the canvas.

"Belle, come on. We have boxes full of this stuff that we need to label. What are you doing?"

She reaches her free hand up, finding his, her fingers closing around his hand as she pulls him down to crouch in front of the painting too.

"Oi, what the hell?"

"Shut up and look at this," she says, her eyes meeting his, ignoring the confusion on his face as she nods towards the painting of the woman with the breathtaking eyes, her hand letting his go.

"What about it?"

His voice is irritable and she knows that they have a million things to do. Sort and label and identify all the paintings and other paraphernalia in the boxes that had been donated to the gallery after being found in the attic of an old local house that had recently gone on the market.

But, even though she can feel his glare, she hears his voice soften as he adds, "She's alright, I suppose."

She feels a smile begin to bloom on her face.

"She is beautiful. But that's not the point. Do you see how he's painted her?"

"How who's painted her?"

"Killian Jones, obviously," she says, rolling her eyes as she points out his signature at the bottom right corner.

"Doesn't answer my question, does it? Who's Killian Jones?"

"I don't know. Clearly an artist of some skill and probably painted during the war, considering all his other paintings. British from the looks of it. But that's not the point."

She turns to face him and reiterates, " _Look how he's painted her."_

But his face remains confused and she lets out a huff of frustration, sitting fully on the floor before turning back to the painting as she begins to explain.

"It's just- It's different. She's smiling, her hair is down and her eyes- everything is so detailed but still soft?"

She pauses for a moment.

Her eyes follow the woman's hair down her shoulders, the gold of it shining in what seems like a hundred different shades, the light hitting it in a way that makes each strand look like it is lifting off the canvas, like if she were to blow at the painting, the woman's hair would fly into her eyes and she'd scrunch her face and laugh.

Belle smiles softly at the thought.

She follows the hair down to the curve of her neck, the lace of her dress only barely visible over the bottom of the canvas and yet so intricately portrayed, the shadow of the lace on the fabric beneath it visible to her even at the distance at which she sits.

Her gaze trails back to the woman's eyes. They are like glass, sparkling and reflecting the unknown sight that they chase across the canvas, a different shade of green every time she looks back at them.

But more than all of the beauty that the painting holds, it is the fact that every brush stroke on it tells her how carefully, how lovingly this portrait had been painted. The hand of the man who had created this had known the subject, had cared for her greatly.

"It's just so intimate," her voice is softer now, trailing off into nothing, as though she has forgotten that Will is still crouching next to her.

"It's like he knew her," she says, "It's like he-"

She turns back to Will then, catching him looking at her with a gentle smile on his face, his eyes crinkled in amusement, perhaps a little fondness, feeling her cheeks flush as she finishes her sentence.

"Loved her."

He smiles wider at her embarrassment even as she ducks her head and begins to stand.

"Didn't know you were such a romantic, Belle."

She hears the laugh in his voice, but she hears the affection too and she doesn't quite know how to respond so she just mumbles for him to-

"Shut up."

He laughs out loud this time in response, chuckling as he stands too.

"Alright, alright. The picture's pretty, she's pretty, you're pretty. Can we hang these things up now?"

She freezes in place, her eyes immediately going to up meet his still amused face, her mouth opening to say something even as she fumbles for the words to respond to his sudden compliment but he speaks before she can finish gathering herself.

"This is only the _first_ thing we've hauled out of these boxes and there's notebooks and more paintings and we need to have all this sorted for the exhibit before the Evil Museum Queen turns us into frogs or something."

"You would make a terrible frog, Will."

She smiles gratefully at him even as he pretends to look affronted, hand to his chest, his mouth open in mock consternation.

"Hey! I'd make a fabulous frog, I'll have you know. All the frog ladies would love me."

He goes to pick up the painting from one end as she goes to pick up the other end of the heavy frame, her shoulders shaking from her laughter. He smiles back at her, his face settling back into the fondness from before as they both lift the painting with a grunt of effort, moving it up the wall to the hooks where it is supposed to hang.

But they only get it a foot off the ground when there is a small cracking noise and the back of the painting seemingly opens up, a few sheets of paper falling to the floor. Folded up into various sizes of small squares and rectangles, she can see little scratches, lines and curves in pencil visible on some of them, the shadows of writing, of ink pressed onto thin paper on others.

"Bloody hell."

"Put down the painting Will!"

Her voice is a little higher than usual, her eyes fixed on the back of the painting, her hands lowering. They place it back onto the floor gently, Belle directing Will to hold the front of it steady as she inspects the back more closely.

She finds it immediately. The little hatch built into the frame that had opened when they had jostled the painting as they'd lifted it. She jiggles it open a little more and finds the rest of the sheets that had been hidden in the frame.

"Oh my god," she whispers as she begins to open the folded sheets one by one, her voice a reverent whisper as she realises that they are letters.

Letters between the same two people over a course of a few months.

Perhaps a few years, she cannot tell.

But, she sees their names again and again. As she moves from letter to letter, only reading the first few lines before moving onto the next, she watches as the salutations change, the names they call each other different, more intimate with every letter they exchange.

_Miss Swan,_

_Captain Jones,_

_Dear Miss Swan,_

_Emma,_

_Killian,_

_My Emma,_

_Dear Killian,_

_My Darling,_

More fascinating though, are the sketches. Rough scribbles of the woman in the painting on the back of every letter she'd written him. Some are a better likeness than others, her pose varying, her expressions different, her face shifting minutely in each.

As though he'd been trying to remember her when they'd been apart.

"Emma Swan," she says, testing the name on her tongue as her eyes fall to the painting again, watching Will lean it back against the wall before crouching beside her and the letters.

"The woman in the painting?"

"Yes," she whispers before going back to the letter in her hand.

"What _are_ these?" Will says, his head leaning in close as he tries to read the script that runs across the page in her hands.

She looks up to meet his eyes, her cheeks flushed, her lips curved into a smile.

"A love story."


	2. Crimson

_London, England_

_Winter, 1915_

Tonight he paints the water.

His brush moves in wide, harsh strokes, the helpless rage that plagues him apparent in the roiling, twisting image of the storm he paints upon his canvas. He paints the moon, distorted and reflecting off the large wave that washes over the side of a ship leaning dangerously sideways. He paints the deep, endless blue of the sky, peppered with stars that twinkle quietly even as the water beneath buckles under straining creaking metal, as the the edges of the words painted on the ship's hull disappear under the waves. He paints the rich purple of the storm clouds lurking in the distance, alive and sparkling with lightning, waiting to come in and wash away the screams of anguish that ring out below them. He paints the emerald greens of the crashing waves, the white of the sea foam suffocating the men who had fallen.

He paints the red.

The edges of the flames licking across the deck, the ocean changing colour beneath the ship, the rips in the sails, the large hole in the hull.

He paints the terrible beauty of the night he lost it all.

* * *

_Off the coast of Germany_

_Summer, 1914_

The solidity of the metal beneath his fingers as he clutches at the gunwale is the only thing keeps him from feeling like he is drowning.

The rain is heavy and oppressive. It makes his clothes cling to his body, dragging his shoulders under their weight. It makes every step an arduous task for his exhausted limbs as he tries to make his way to his brother and captain. Liam stands behind the glass on the bridge, looking down at the flashes of flame as guns from opposing ships fire at them. The wind is loud, the shelling even louder as Killian struggles to stand, the ship's deck rumbling beneath his feet, his body feeling the kickback from every time guns go off both below and above him.

"Lieutenant! What is- "

"Back to your station, Smee!"

Killian's voice is a faint thread upon the sounds of thunder even as his throat feels hoarse from shouting. He watches as Smee's lips form a quick assent but he doesn't hear him as yet another shell leaves one of their guns.

He turns back for a moment, to look again at the fleet of ships rapidly making their way towards the Jewel, their pace steady despite the tumult of the ocean beneath them, of the sky above them.

This was supposed to be a quiet reconnaissance.

Their Admiral had ordered their lone ship to slip into enemy territory for a quick look around and though Killian had had his doubts about the operation, Liam had followed orders implicitly as one ought to do.

But now, as he stands there, face to face with far too many ships for them to handle at once, ships that weren't supposed to be this far from the coast, his eyes squinting against the bright flashes of the guns, the waves tossing their ship and their enemies' alike, making the battle just that much more difficult, he wonders if he should have raised his voice, if Liam should have questioned Admiral Gold.

Their stealthy patrol had become an ambush in a matter of minutes.

Another kick as the deck beneath his feet sways, as another wave tosses them, as another rush of water from the ocean wets the deck. He turns around and continues on his way to the bridge.

Thunder rumbles in the skies matching the sound of their guns, lightning outlining the crow's nest with a halo of white light as he looks up, his hands gripping the edges of the ladder that leads up to his brother.

Water begins to get in his eyes and he looks straight ahead again, beginning to make the slippery climb. The way up is even harder than the walk to the ladder had been but he continues, his hands gripping tight, his feet curled along the rungs of the ladder, holding on even tighter every time the ship sways under fire, every time the thunder startles him, terribly easy to mistake for a shell hitting its mark.

He finally reaches the top, the sounds of the outside muffling a touch as he steps into the room, swiping the wet strands of hair that cling to his forehead.

"Captain! What's happening?"

His voice is hoarse rasp, a result of shouting over the howling wind and rain.

"I'm not sure." Liam doesn't look at him, his body still turned towards the ships- definitely more than one- making their way rapidly towards them.

"Wasn't this a-"

"Yes, Lieutenant, it was," Liam turns to face him then, his mouth opening to say something but before he can, Killian feels the floor begin to wobble beneath them harder than before. Perhaps one of the shells had found its mark after all. Liam bends and tells the man at the radio something before coming to stand next to him.

"Killian, we've radioed the Admiral but either they can't hear us or-" his voice is a whisper then, not wanting the other men to hear the uncertainty, the doubt colouring his voice.

Killian feels his heart drop. No, surely, they wouldn't. Even though he had had his doubts about the legitimacy and the nature of their mission, he had never considered the fact that they might be left here-

"Or? Liam I'm sure they've not heard us. You know how radios are and the storm-"

Killian's voice teeters away, his hand instinctively clenching as he tries to hide the frantic pounding of his heart.

"Killian listen," Liam takes his hand, his eyes searching Killian's wider ones, "we'll keep trying but in case we can't reach them, I want you to-"

He never finishes his sentence because suddenly they are falling.

* * *

They never hear the torpedo coming but everyone in the room hears the deafening creaking noise, the explosion as they are hit on their starboard side.

The ship immediately begins to tip on its side and Killian watches as every instrument, every piece of furniture and every man on the bridge first rises up, off the ground, then falls back down with a crash before beginning to fall sideways. As though part of a dance with the violent waves of the ocean, with the howling wind, with the flashing thunder and lightning.

It must be quite the sight, the fire and the water, the lighting and the gunfire and the moon above it watching it all unfold, he thinks, disconnected, as his mind tries to catch up with what is happening. His eyes are locked on Liam's, their hands still clasped together as they crash against the window on the far end of the room, their bodies prone against it as the ship continues to sway and shudder. He can see the flames licking at the edges of the water, smoke veiling the world around them.

"Liam I-"

Someone begins to scream, their voice mixing in with the sudden influx of noise as one of the windows breaks. Liam's eyes squeeze shut even as Killian holds on to him harder, his other hand gripping the window frame as tightly as possible.

Another explosion, much closer this time. The coal. The boiler, perhaps. His ears ring with it, mercifully muffling the sounds of men shouting for evacuation, looking for the captain, screaming in panic. The flames rise higher, the smoke coming into their room through the broken windows. He begins searching the room for the rest of their men, his eyes finding only grey and red and yellow at the edges of his vision.

"Killian! Look at me!"

He jerks his head back to Liam whose hair is wet with rain now, his voice faint above the noises of shouting, of the waves crashing against their sides, of the roaring thunder, of the slowly retreating gunfire.

Another groan of the ship as it begins to give in, continuing to tip onto its side. The window beneath them finally gives in under their combined weight, a small crackle of breaking glass that sounds louder to him than all the gunfire in the world.

And just like that, Liam is falling, his one hand still in Killian's, the other holding on to the jagged edge where the glass had broken off, blood already seeping in between his fingertips as he shouts in pain. Below Liam, Killian can see the rest of the ship, the deck perpendicular to him, the railing of the ship beneath them silhouetted against a massive wave that he can see is coming toward them. The fire hasn't reached this side of the ship yet, the deck still soaking, men clinging to lifeboats, struggling to untie them even as they hang off of the gunwale.

It all feels like it is happening a hundred times slower than it is.

"Liam, I won't let go!"

He thinks these words, as he holds on tighter, as he looks into his fear reflected in Liam's eyes, as he tries to get his feet on a surface sturdy enough to put his weight onto pull himself up. He sees Liam try to say something, his lips moving but his voice inaudible over the cacophony of terror outside, over the ringing of the explosion still in his ears.

He never does know if he said the words, he never does know what Liam had said, he never gets to say goodbye because just like that, the water is upon them and everything goes black.

* * *

_London, England_

_Winter, 1915_

His hand starts shaking right as he begins to trace the delicate edge of the moonlight outlining the crow's nest.

A stray wind blows through the crack in his window, the latch a little too loose to close it all the way, the chill of it making him shiver in his loose clothes, his hand reaching for the flask on the small table beside him. As he takes a swig of his rum, the burn of it warming his throat, his eyes fall again to the letter that sits on the table across from him. The remains of his meagre dinner are still on his plate next to it, the edges of the paper crumpled and creased as he had crushed it and reopened it again and again. The dips and valleys in the paper lit by the candle that sits on the table speak of his indecision, the storm that rages inside him. He takes another deep drag. He had tried to forget, tried to lose himself in the rhythmic back and forth of his brush, in the rich colours of his canvas but the words of the letter come back to him again, Robin's words etched into his mind, swimming through his consciousness, pulling at him like a tide until all he can do is succumb to their will.

_I know how you feel about the war Killian._

_But, I urge you my friend, to consider this. It is an opportunity that I hope will get you out of your self imposed exile, that will help you do something you love again, that I hope, will make you smile again._

_By god, I have not heard you laugh in months._

_Please tell me you will consider it?_

He goes on to speak of a War Artists Scheme.

A new plan by the president of the Propaganda Bureau to send artists out to the front to capture the life in the trenches, sketch their brave lads, make images of the _glories_ of it all and bring them back home.

Robin had sent the application as well, already filled in. Killian's lips quirk into a soft smile despite himself. Robin had always been a good man.

And a persistent one.

But, despite the fact that his heart warms at the thought of his old friend worrying for him, thinking him worthy, the idea of stepping into the fore again, the idea of watching more young men fall in the name of a war nobody seems to know the purpose of, it aches sharp and heavy in his chest.

He turns away from the letter then, exchanging his flask for his brush again, the bristles hovering over the canvas even as his eyes fall inevitably, as they always do, to his left arm.

The bad one. The stump. A small price to pay for King and Country. It has been called many things since he had lost it that same night he had lost Liam many months ago. They had discharged him after a quick stay at a hospital and deemed him worthy of a few Pounds of compensation a year for his loss, a medal in exchange for his brother, a small red chevron on his uniform in exchange for his limb.

The limb in question aches as if in response.

Sometimes, he can still feel his missing hand, feel his phantom fingers flex, feel the sharp, shooting pain that had run up and down his arm until he had lost consciousness on that alien shore where he had washed up.

(Hear his own shouts of agony as the guillotine had fallen, as a soft voice had whispered nonsense platitudes.)

He drops his hand, his eyes squeezing shut as he pulls himself out of the memory, his brush falling softly onto his palette before he reaches to lift his shirt sleeve up. He watches the end where his forearm terminates into nothingness, trying to see if there was a physical manifestation of the pain, a pulsing of his puckered flesh, a change in it's colour, _something_ to mark the intensity of the pain that has become his companion. But there is nothing, his arm looking as unremarkable as ever apart from the obvious missing bit.

His eyes drift back up to his canvas, chasing the waves that match up against the jagged edges of the broken ship. The blues of the ocean looking grey in the dim light of his candles and the street beyond his window, the flames softer, the blood in the water darker. His hand clutches at the end of his injured arm, his teeth grinding, his jaw clenching as the pain spikes for a moment before falling back to its constant hum.

It is always the worst at night when the world is quiet, when there is nothing to distract the demons in his mind from his body's protests. His stump pulses with a warm ache that is all that he can feel. It rings through his heart and his mind and nothing will curb it. So he lies with his only hand clasped on the end of it, his teeth clenched tight, his eyes squeezed shut as he tries to stop the sobs from escaping until his mind, exhausted from it all finally gives in to a fitful sleep.

But some nights, like tonight, there is no fighting it. The pain consumes him, it eats away at his mind, his body unable to resist and so he paints. He paints large washes of colour, endless ocean and sky, clouds drifting in the soft breeze, the sun soft and warm behind them. He paints until the rhythm of his brush calms his mind. He paints though the dim light strains his eyes, though the colours are different in it. He paints all through the night until the muted colours, lit only by his candles turn rich and vibrant in the dawn sunlight.

It had been difficult at first, his hand unused to holding his delicate brushes after so long operating guns and machinery. He had had to change his setup of an easel and a small stool by its side to hold his brushes and add a much larger, higher table that would hold his paints, his palette, his brushes, the little bowl with alcohol to clean them. His inability to use both hands and hold his palette and his brush at once had led to him needing a higher location to place his colours so that he may reach for them as he worked.

It had taken him a more than a few days to get used to this new, slightly slower way of doing things. Trying in vain to balance his heavy, rectangular, folding palette on his bad arm, spilling his bowl of alcohol all over his floor in an attempt to keep himself from dropping his palette with his newly mixed and expensive colours on it, his temper and his stubbornness had been at odds with one another as he struggled between giving up and pushing through the pain. But, the memory of Liam falling away in a chasm of noise and glass and flame etched behind his eyelids had made his first shaky strokes grow heavy and solid and steady until it had become easier.

Even now as he stands before the image that fills his nightmares still, his hand closed over his injured arm, his body swaying from exhaustion, his toes curling into the floor as another stray breeze ruffles his clothes, his heart still longs to finish the painting.

As though completing the image would help him escape it.

Painting has always been his solace, his place to hide. Even as a child, he had hidden in the smell of the paints, in the touch of canvas, in the rough lines on charcoal in his sketchbook, in his soot covered fingers. He had continued to hide in them as an adult too, a tutor before he had enlisted.

But now, broken in more than just body, he finds he is unable to do anything else.

And nobody wants to learn to paint the colours of the sky when everyday, the hospitals overflow with men who aren't men anymore but numbers, when letters are sent but never received, when brothers and fathers and sons and lovers go missing in foreign lands and seas, never to be found.

Nobody wants to hire an artist to sketch out the turmoil of their collective nightmare.

Apart from the men who have declared this war, caused the nightmare themselves.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath before dropping his hand from around his arm as he reaches for his brush again, a thicker one this time, dipping into the deep blue of the turbulent ocean, his hand just a little steadier than before.

Tonight, instead of the large seascape that sits behind him- his mind preoccupied by Robin's letter- he had picked up the canvas that sat facing the wall in his bedroom. The canvas that he had begun working on that first night he had walked into this house, its rooms alight with the ghost of his brother, of the life they had shared. The first night he had seen his brother's empty bed, the rooms suddenly too large, too hollow. The first night that he had shut every door, every window and sat in his room, tried to contain the panic in his gut by making himself as small as possible. The first night he had lain on his bed, his hand clutching at the end of his arm where his other hand no longer was, trying but failing to rock himself to sleep. The first night he had picked up his brush after what felt like years and begun to paint the crashing thunder and the helpless echoes of that horrible night.

But his renewed effort doesn't last long, the lines of his waves, meant to be soft and curved, cresting and dipping with a terrible beauty are instead jagged and broken as he tries to be delicate with a hand that has begun to tremble once more. Another chill gust of wind, carrying the scent of the ocean outside convinces him to give up for the night, his brush clattering as he drops it onto his pallette, the sound loud in the silence of his house.

Running his hand through his hair in frustration, he grabs at his flask again, the rum doing little to calm the pain but doing just enough to dull his senses. Enough that the restless agitation in his belly becomes a faded echo, enough that the helpless rage in his heart becomes a hazy reflection.

The rum is what he blames for what happens next.

Eyes still lingering on the painting before him, his mind already trying to work out ways to correct the shaky mistakes of his hand this night, he does not look as he moves to place the flask back on to the table beside him. Only, he misjudges the distance and it lands atop his palette instead, his recently discarded brush rolling off its edge, his heavy palette tipping towards the floor. Forgetting in his haste and in the haze of the alcohol drudging through his veins, he reaches out with his left arm to steady it. But he is not quick enough and the palette falls, it's straight edge crashing into the puckered end of his constantly aching wound.

And as his pained shout echoes in his silent, too big house, as he realises just how truly helpless he is, he finally allows himself to cry the frustrated sobs that had been caught in his throat all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve researched and tried to portray this period with as much accuracy as I can manage but I have taken a couple of liberties at certain points and I will mention them in my author’s notes whenever I do. Apologies for any mistakes.
> 
> In this chapter, 
> 
> In real life, the Propaganda Bureau commissioned its first War Artist in May 1916 but for the purposes of this story, Killian is being called upon earlier as a sort of test of the scheme, where they’re searching for lesser known artists to see how well it would work.
> 
> In other news, Guillotines were in fact used for amputations in the First World War and it was terrible.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will stick around for more. Please let me know what you think! <3


	3. Blue

_ London, England _

_ Winter, 1915 _

 

The sun is halfway up the sky when he finally gives in and goes to the hospital. His arm wrapped in an old shirt, his bootlaces sloppily tied, the walk to the hospital is a nightmare. Every step, every movement bringing a sharp shot of pain up his arm.

He hadn't bled at first, the stubborn pulsing pain of his wound only getting louder, more insistent. But as he had begun to clear his small area of work, not much less stubborn himself, he’d watched as a single drop of the deepest red fell from his arm into his bowl of alcohol, the colour blooming into a wide disc between the swirling deep blues and rich purples of his painting.

The pain had turned piercing then, the old sharp stab of breaking skin and blood welling where a cut had opened. Unable to control or staunch the exacerbated ache, he'd put on a coat and begun to walk.

There is a chill in the air, the sun not completely awake yet, the rain from last night still visible in puddles on the street, a fine mist settled on everything in his path. The air is thick and wet as he breathes noisily, every step a hurdle, his breath puffing into steam in front of him. He pulls his coat tighter around himself, as well as he can with one hand, pulling on one side and then the other, hunching his head down into his scarf as he tries to hide from the wind that follows him from the river. It cuts through him like a knife, flowing strong and powerful and completely through him as he walks through the slowly rousing streets of London in the morning, his fellow early risers walking the same way, with swift step and lowered heads.

It feels as though he is but the bones that make him, his body feeling like it has gone missing.

The only feeling that is loud enough to fight the cold and damp, is the pain in his arm that rings like a pulsing beacon, red and angry calling his attention back to it again and again. He tries concentrating instead on the low murmur of sound beginning to fill the streets, getting louder the closer he gets to the hospital, the closer it gets to being properly morning. He tries following the melody of the birds tweeting around him, ducks just waking and quacking away at one another. He tries to look outside himself for a distraction that will keep him upright long enough to reach his destination.

It only just works.

* * *

 The first blast of warm air from inside the hospital feels like a balm but it is quickly followed by the sharp, too clean smell of disinfectant, the sound of rapid footsteps as doctors and nurses move in the corridors, muffled groans of pain, low sobs of despair.

He only just registers the voice of the red-headed woman at the front desk asking him to take a seat, to wait his turn. He sits pressed between a woman who is quietly sobbing into her handkerchief, her shoulders shaking gently and a man who has gauze wrapped around his left eye, his other squeezed shut as he holds on to the hand of the man sitting on his other side, knuckles white from his grip. The hospital is loud and quiet all at once, the voices of the doctors and nurses mixing with quiet crying and agonised screaming alike. The shout of pain from a dressing of a wound overlaid upon the silence of a family hearing that their son would not make it.

The bench is hard and uneven, a straight wooden slat set into the wall. He falls back against it, glad for the discomfort for it gives him something to concentrate on that’s not the deep red pounding of his arm that has gotten more intense even as the blood from the small cut on his wrist has since clotted and stopped staining the shirt he has wrapped around it.

His jaw clenches as he takes a deep breath before releasing his arm from the grip he’s had on it since he left his house. The sudden release of pressure on the wound makes him gasp as the pain jolts in its intensity. Unwrapping the shirt, he takes a look at the cut. A much deeper red now and uneven to the touch, the wound looks disproportionately ordinary compared to the pain that it is causing. He wraps the shirt back around it before leaning his head against the wall, his eyes closing as he tries to push outward again, tries to divert his attention from the pain that beats in time with his heart.

“Elsa! Hold on a minute.”

It is the woman from the desk. The one who’d written down his name and asked him to wait. Her voice is a loud whisper, frantic as she tries to get someone’s attention. He hears a pair of footsteps slow and and then make a turn, coming to a stop near him, before woman at the desk continues speaking, lower now. Her volume slipping into a more conversational one.

“Is everything alright? We haven’t sent a new patient in--”

“It’s fine, Anna. As fine as it can be really,” the other woman, Elsa replies, cutting Anna’s sentence short. Her voice is lower still and Killian has to strain to make out the words, even as he feels just a tinge of something akin to shame for listening to a private conversation. Elsa continues speaking though and her voice is like a cool stream of water that seems to soften the sharp edges of his ache just a little bit.

“The casualty convoy from last night had quite a few emergency amputations and we’re having a little trouble finishing up the dressings. Emma’s taking care of the last of them now so you can send your next man in soon, I reckon.”

“Alright then,” Anna replies before she drops her brusque businesslike tone and continues, “Are _you_ alright, Elsa? I’m worried, there’s always so much blood and so much pain. I don’t know how you bear it.”

Her voice is different now, a familiarity to it, a concern that makes Killian ache in an altogether different way, his heart suddenly wanting arms around him to rock him as he cries, to brush his hair as he fights the constant ache of the part of him he’d lost on that alien beach.

He opens his eyes to look at them and finds them standing by the front desk, not four steps away and across from him. He notices Elsa first, her face lit by the soft morning sunlight streaming in from the window across from her. Her blonde hair so bright that it looks almost white, like if he’d mixed in the colour of wheat with sunlight. It is knotted into a bun and hidden under her hat, just like all the nurses who work here but wisps of it still escape and flicker about her face like little sparks of light. She's looking at the other woman, Anna, her hand on her arm, a soft smile on her face. Anna’s face is settled into an unease that is apparent about her person, her apron just a little crooked, the white of it sharp against her dull blue dress, her red hair escaping in much larger curls from under her headdress, the fabric wrapped around her head and tied at the nape of her neck telling him that she was a VAD.

“I'm okay,” Elsa says but even from this distance Killian can see the lie in her tired eyes, the telltale tone of voice that his brother would use to assure him that everything would be fine even as they had to spend another night huddled under a single thin blanket, their stomachs still growling for just another bite.

But Anna seems to believe her, returning her smile and squeezing her hand before nodding at her. Elsa nods back in answer and begins to walk away, Anna taking her seat back at the front desk, making Killian's small moment of respite end as his attention returns to the pain.

He closes his eyes again, head banging almost painfully against the wall again as he grits his teeth, hoping that someone would be ready to see him soon. But even as he tries again to find something to focus on, the image of the two women, one trying to comfort and the other brimming with concern come back to him again and again.

His pain addled mind slowly replaces the image with another corridor, another rising dawn, another hospital, its halls filled with people with faces less kind than the ones who walked here. Perhaps they had been kind too but he had been too afraid. Ten year old Liam's hand on his forearm, his eyes kind, his smile false, the dim light of a lantern shadowing the hollows of his face as he tells a four year old Killian that their mother would not wake again.

_“Mother is somewhere better now.”_

_“Can we visit her, Liam?”_

He sees the younger version of himself look up at his brother with the tiniest glimmer of hope that somehow he’d be able to go to this place their mother had gone, his voice wobbly, his eyes wide. He sees Liam’s grip on little Killian’s forearm tighten before pulling him into a fierce hug, his eyes squeezed shut, a few tears escaping as he tries to be the older brother, as he tries to hold himself together for Killian.

_“No, little brother, I’m afraid not.”_

_“But, why?”_

He remembers his own indignation at Liam’s flat refusal of his request. He remembers pulling away from Liam’s hold, looking into his brothers tear streaked face. He remembers finally realising what had happened. That he’d lost his sweet mother, lost her voice singing him to sleep, lost her hands in his hair, lost her kiss on his forehead.

_“People only go there when they’ve been good and brave. Can you do that for me Killian?”_

He remembers never wondering where their father was, knowing already that he would not be there for them, that Killian would see him stumble into their small house in the early hours of the morning with a stench on his breath, a wobble in his step. He remembers already knowing that the only person he could depend on, lean on, was his brother Liam.

He remembers nodding solemnly as Liam slowly wipes at his wet cheeks.

_“I promise.”_

_“Good lad. I’m just going to go see where father is and I will back in a minute alright? Can you wait here for me?”_

He remembers staring at the dim lantern above the doorway across from which he sat. He remembers every curve and edge of the thing, the thin stream of light that came from it, the long shape it made on the floor as he waited for Liam to return. He remembers the nurse who had come to ask him if he was alone or waiting for someone.

_“My brother Liam is here. He should be back soon.”_

_“That’s good. I’m right over there if you need anything, alright?”_

_“Yes, miss.”_

_“The King and Queen deeply regret to hear of the loss you and the Army have sustained by the death of your--”_

His eyes shoot open as the kind nurse’s voice suddenly changes to his Admiral’s. Her words of quiet comfort turning into his sharp, unfeeling voice reading out the commiseration letter from the King he had received weeks after Liam’s death. A letter that had come with a form informing him that his brother had perished in the line of duty. A form, full of blanks to be filled in for the all the men that fell.

**_It is my painful duty to inform you that a report has been received from the War Office notifying the death of:--_ **

**_(No.)_ ** _1563_ **_(Rank)_ ** _Captain_

**_(Name)_ ** _Liam Jones_

**_Which occurred_ ** _in the field, HMS Jewel_

**_On the_ ** _2nd December 1915_

**_This report is to the effect that he was_ ** _KILLED IN ACTION_

**_By his Majesty’s command, I am to forward the enclosed message of sympathy from their Gracious Majesties the King and Queen. I am at the same time to express the regret of the--_ **

His eyes shut again, burning from his lack of sleep, his head hitting hard against the wall as he remembers the sharp black letters printed on the paper that had stared up at him that day in the post. He remembers standing next to his canvas, afternoon sunlight pouring in through the curtains lighting up the rough beginnings of a seascape. But when he had seen Liam’s name written by a hand that had never known him, the green stamp of the words “KILLED IN ACTION” looking up at him, Liam just a name on a list to be filed away and dealt with, the peaceful landscape had become a wild sunset, broad strokes swepping angrily against the white canvas until his hand and his wrist and his clothes had become stained with the brightest reds and oranges.

He had sat then at the foot of his easel and traced the looping, careless writing that had written Liam’s name, opened the letter from the King, this one typed out as well, the words hollow and unknowing.

These people had not known him. They had not known his bravery, his strength, his tenderness. They had not known how he had stood on the deck of that ship and sworn to protect his people and serve his King. They had not known the brother who would hug him close and give him enough strength to stand tall another day. They had not known the officer who would inspire his men into fighting another cold, lonely night when all they wanted was to go back home to a warm hearth and soft hugs.

The ache in his wrist shoots up for a minute, his hand coming back around to hold on to it as his jaw clenches. Frustration grows in his chest like a vine, burning bright and crimson as it spreads from his chest, down his spine, to his head, his arms, his wrist.

But even through the haze, he remembers the letter as it had gone on to express regret on behalf of the Army Council, had told him that details of the funeral would be forthcoming. But, they had never come. Instead, he had been called in to talk to a short man in uniform, his voice a touch shaky, his hair a whisper upon his head as he told Killian that he had a duty to his fellow men, to his King and Country, to keep the events of his injury, the truth of his brother’s death quiet. He had given him a new rank, his brother’s title because as his second in command, Killian had survived him.

The man’s words echoed the posters that lined his walls.

_Step into your place!_

_Men of Britain? Will you stand this?_

_You said you would go when you were needed! You are needed NOW!_

The man in the poster, his uniform impeccable, his finger pointing at Killian begins to speak, his words audible from out of his memory, his voice a loud call to arms, a thunderous creaking sound as a ship breaks in two, a chorus of screams that are drowned out by the sound of water.

_“NOW!”_

Killian’s eyes screw shut even tighter, his grip on his arm tightening as a voice filters through into his haze of blinding white pain.

_“Captain Jones! We need you NOW!”_

The sob caught in his throat becomes a growl as he fights it back, his grip on his injured arm so tight, he feels as though the knuckles on his hand would stab through his skin.

“Captain Jones?”

He jerks away from the touch on his shoulder, another growl escaping his throat as he retreats, feral and injured, holding his wound against his chest.

Anna from the front desk stands with her arm outstretched, her eyes wide at his sudden reaction. He watches her swallow, her hand dropping to her side as she repeats herself.

“Captain Jones, we’re ready for you now.”

He slowly unclenches his hand, taking deep breaths, nodding to her as he stands. His motions are stiff, his body still stiff from the way he had retreated into a state ready for battle, his muscles ready to run, to fight.

(But how do you fight a demon that is invisible and lives inside you?)

He tries to smile at her, the red haired woman with the wide, scared eyes but he does not know if it comes through the way it is intended, reassuring and apologetic. He wonders how many of his demons she can see in his eyes.

But then, her eyes drop to his wrist, to the fabric that covers the end of it. But, the wrapping does not hide the fact that he is lacking and they soften.

Into pity, into concern perhaps. He is not sure but it is all it takes for his attempt at a smile to drop completely, his fist and jaw to clench tight again, his heart and his steps heavy as he makes his way to the doctor’s room.

* * *

 The room is sparse in its furnishings and dreary in its colour, the walls a nondescript beige, the floor a pale yellow.  A desk and a chair sit in the corner, dark wood with various scratches and stains colouring them. A cupboard just off the side stands small but intimidating with bottles of various sizes and degrees of menacing labels hidden behind cloudy glass.

The woman stands by a small table to the left of the examination table, her white cap tilted a little to the side, the knot at the nape of her neck coming just a little loose, her head bent over the equipment that sits on it. He hears the gentle clatter of metal as she rearranges them back onto the tray. She doesn’t acknowledge him at first, her fingers busy with straightening the half unwound roll of gauze, the cotton wool that sits in a bowl.

He clears his throat then, his jaw clenched in his frustration. His mind, still lost in a tumultuous storm directs all his unsettled feelings into impatience and then irritation with the woman who was supposed to take care of this for him. All he wants is for her to give him a shot of morphine so he can breathe again without his lungs making his wrist feel like it was going to pull out of his skin, so he could leave this place that made him feel like a helpless child, Anna’s pitying eyes flashing in his mind.

“Apologies Captain, if you could take a seat on the table. I will be right with you.”

Her voice is firm, smooth, not unlike Elsa’s from outside except that her words are more rounded, more American, he realises. He wonders if they are all asked to speak this way. Perhaps it calms the nervous, _volatile_ men they see each day. Perhaps it helps them handle the soldiers who come in here with broken bones and broken spirits.

On another day perhaps, this would not bother him as much. But today, which is still tonight to him, when he hasn’t slept a wink, when a small bump against metal has got him running to a hospital lest he pass out from the pain, when he might have to post his application to go back into the fray, to back to working for the people who had cost him his family, his autonomy. Who had cost him everything, her voice only serves to drive the knife in further.

He obeys her though and begins to seat himself on the table, the white sheet crinkling under his weight, a sharp pain shooting up his arm as he puts weight on it to hoist himself up. A groan escapes him as he finally stills, successfully sitting atop the somewhat shaky metal table.

He can see her better now, her head still bowed, her white gloved hands straightening the bottles that line her tray. And that is when he sees it, her fingers trembling just a bit as she continues fixing things, her blonde, almost golden hair escaping her VAD’s cap in wisps, her blinding white apron stained with little specks of bright red.

He doesn’t know why he says it.

No, that’s a lie.

He knows exactly why he says it. It gives him control again, it gives him a place to direct the violent hurricane of his anger and helplessness. He knows why he does it but he hates himself even as he hears the words leave his lips.

“Perhaps genteel folk ought not to take up work they are not suited for. Should not a _real_ nurse be doing this?”

She stiffens immediately, her fingers stilling around a muddy brown coloured bottle who’s slightly ripped label reads, _Pain Dispeller_. But, she does not respond immediately and he lets himself say more, lets himself feel the misplaced, guilty pleasure of taking away some of his own frustration this way. Even as he knows that it is wrong, that it is ill considered and ill mannered and most definitely bad form, he continues.

“I only mean that certain hands are suited to certain tasks. For example, when I see yours, I imagine a tea cup in them, perhaps a delicate glass filled with wine. Certainly not tools to heal the wounded.”

He speaks in his most deprecating tone, his voice dripping disdain as it slowly swims through the thickness of his words. But, still she is quiet, placing the bottle she had been holding back into its place before turning to face him.

And it is at that moment, that he is lost.

The world is suddenly louder, more vivid, as though waiting for him to memorise it all, as though telling him. Pay attention. This is important.

The heat of the now fully risen sun from the window behind him suddenly feels like a burning that spreads from his face to his belly, the cloth that covers his wrist becomes scratchy under his fingers as they clench around it, his body stills its restless movements and it feels as though his heart has stopped but most of all, his arm stops pulsing with pain.

Just for a moment.

The blinding white of it flooded with the green of her eyes.

The gold of her hair is just visible under her wimple, her face drenched in sunlight. She walks towards him, her movements stiff and restrained as though she is trying not to grab something and throw it at him. When she is standing in front of him, he sees her lips pulled into a tight smile, her cheeks turning a gentle red, betraying her despite her attempts at trying to maintain a cordial countenance. But, it is her eyes that take him.  

Her eyes.

Blazing with anger, glittering with emotion, translucent and mottled with what seems like a thousand shades of green.

They look like sea glass.

Jagged edges and all.

She speaks then, and the cool voice from before is like a thin sheet that covers the storm that lies in her throat.

“I don’t know who you imagine yourself to be Captain Jones. But, I will not have you speak to me this way. Not today, when I have just dressed the wounds of a boy not twenty yet. Not when I have wrapped up what remains of his leg as he screamed for his mother who has been dead ten years. Not when I sent him on his way with no answer for when he asked me if the pain would ever go away. Perhaps you can be the one to tell him why he still feels the pain a limb that is no longer there. Perhaps you can tell him why it was worth it that he would never walk again.”

She stops then and he comes back to himself. She is still standing before him, her breath coming in sharp quick puffs as she tries to gather herself, her cheeks now a much more vibrant red, her eyes locked on his.

He feels the remorse in his chest instantly, his hand slipping from his place on the fabric around his wrist, trying almost to reach for her, then abandoning the movement to scratch behind his ear instead before coming back to his arm. He opens his mouth to apologise but it seems like he has lost all his words, his mouth opening and closing ineffectually.

He wants to apologise, to say that he knows what it is like.

(His wrist begins to twinge with pain again even as he thinks about it.)

He wants to say that he shouldn’t have dared to presume, that he did not mean to disrespect her so.

But his traitorous mind can think of but one thing at that moment.

How much he wants to capture those eyes on his canvas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes, historical or otherwise:
> 
> In this chapter,
> 
> For the purposes of this story, since Killian was in command of the Jewel for a short minute after Liam’s death and before it sank, they offered him a technical promotion to keep him quiet.
> 
> The letters that Killian received are real and were sent to all family of men who had perished in the war.
> 
> The posters that Killian sees in the Army Office are real.
> 
> VAD stands for Voluntary Aid Detachment and they were women who volunteered to serve as nurses to assist in the war effort. They were usually from aristocratic families. Their uniform differed from that of trained nurses. The major difference was that the VADs wore a cap tied at the nape of the neck whereas trained nurses wore white wimples. In this story Emma is a VAD and Elsa is a trained nurse.
> 
> Pain Dispeller is real.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and will stick around for more. Please let me know what you think! <3


	4. Sea Green

_ London, England _

_ Winter, 1915 _

 

Her skin feels like it is aflame, heat spreading through her as she breathes in sharp, shallow pants, her fingers clenched at her sides as she stares at the man perched on the examination table in front of her. The man who had just lit a spark in the pile of gunpowder that her heart had become over the course of the night.

Her body is tired from standing so long, her calves screaming for relief, her back aching for sleep. Her soul tired from hearing the cries of men too broken and boys too young to be going through torment she cannot even begin to imagine. But his words have gotten her ready to fight, her muscles tight and tense. They have gotten her ready to let the blood that stains her apron stain the words that wait to leave her lips.

He is quiet now, his mouth half open to speak, his eyes wide, darkness lurking underneath them but shining a deep blue even as he sits shadowed by the light from the window behind him. His dark hair is a tousled mess atop his head, the fingers of his right hand clutched tightly around his left wrist and it is then that she sees it.

The way that his forearm falls away into nothing, a large, rumpled piece of fabric tinged with a little red wrapped tightly around the stump where his hand used to be. His knuckles are white from the grip he has on his wrist, his fingers clutching tightly around the cloth. Fingers that are stained with something blue, she thinks dimly, noting the odd detail even as she feels all the fight drain away from her. Her shoulders slumping, her fingers unclenching, she takes a deep breath and turns away from him.

He was one of them. Of course he was. The right age, the right build. Fit and strong and just broken in the right ways, just bitter enough. Just good enough at hiding his pain to tell her that he had been a part of it already.

She should have known.

She sees them pass from beneath her fingers everyday. Boys and men of all ages, broken and injured in a myriad of new and horrible ways each day. Hurt with fire and metal and poison until it is too horrible to dwell on for too long lest she collapse under the weight of it all. They pass through her room, the beds in the hospital filled with young boys with faces still too rounded to be twisted into such pain, with men who stare into the ceiling with their teeth grinding together as she tries to keep the poison in their wounds from spreading, as she dresses the pieces of them they have lost.  

She walks to the cupboard, her fingers busying themselves with fetching some Iodine, readying some cotton and gauze for his wound.

She tries to forget their first names as soon as she hears them, tries never to know the stories that hide behind the eyes that look up at her from the table. Mostly scared, mostly angry but sometimes she sees a pair of eyes that look up at her with a hope so incredible, so incredulous that it takes her breath away. Those are the ones she tries to forget the most for more often than not, she sees them again and they are the same eyes from before, their brightness taken away, the blues and greens and browns of them duller than they used to be.

A breath before she begins to form the apology in her mind and another before she begins to speak it.

“I apologise, Captain. It’s been a difficult night. I didn’t know that you too had--”

She turns back to face him, placing the Iodine and cotton on the tray beside him, her hands reaching for his wrist, her eyes fixed on his arm unable to meet his eyes.

He clears his throat, as though looking for his voice, making her stop in her tentative movements before he speaks again.

“No, It is I who should apologise. What I said was out of line and unwarranted. It has been a difficult night for all I suppose, Miss--?”

He stops with a question, his voice low and sincere, his hand removing the fabric covering his wrist and raising it to her.

“Swan. Emma Swan,” she almost mumbles as she gently touches his wound, her fingers finding the raised edges of the clotted blood where he had been cut.

He flinches at first but quickly relaxes, even as his body retains the constant stiffness that betrays the pain that he bears.

“It is but a nick from the edge of my palette and yet it aches as though someone had stabbed me with a blunt knife.”

She finds herself tracing the thin line of the cut gently back and forth with her gloved fingers, suddenly overwhelmed. The weight of last night coming to rest so very heavily on her shoulders, tears blurring her vision just a touch as young Philip who had just left here on crutches comes to her mind. Eric with his beaming smile even as half his face is covered in bandages. Frederick coming in with a letter to his wife Kathyrn tucked into his jacket, only mumbling that someone get it to her even as they rolled him into surgery.

Captain Jones here with his sharp words but soft eyes, bearing his own pain in the shadows on his face.

She lets out a slow breath and pushes the tears back, pulling a smile onto her face. The one her mother had taught her, the one meant to calm and reassure even as your heart buckles under the weight of its own pain.

“It’s alright. We’ll take care of it. You just got too close to an old wound.”

Her voice comes out even and sure and she is glad of it. He chuckles in response, the sound rumbling through his body but it is a sad, bitter thing and she feels herself looking up at him, her eyebrows raised in question.

“Oh Miss Swan, if you knew just how many old wounds I- ” another soft laugh on an exhale and she almost misses what he says next, his voice lost somewhere between the ache of his wound and the ache in his heart,

“Fate is cruel.”

His face twists into unease then, his eyes suddenly far away and she instinctively drops her own back to his injury, moving to push his sleeve up just a little to see it better but even as she does it, his body stiffens, his hand moving as if to cover himself back up but managing to restrain himself.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen worse,” she says, her eyes still fixed on his wound, slowly pressing along it and up his wrist, the edge of a tattoo visible from under his sleeve and when he doesn’t flinch apart from the small cut, she lets go of his arm, satisfied. Turning back to her tray, she pulls out the Iodine and cotton wool and looks back at him.

“Sorry, old habits Miss. Not everyone would look upon a man such as myself without well--”

HIs voice falls away then, his eyes falling away too, fixing upon his wound, his lips straightening into a thin line as his hand clenches again. Another sign of the pain he hides so well, physical or otherwise. The sun in the window behind him haloes his form, his back hunched over his hand, his head bowed and she has seen this before, she has seen this pain and this bitterness, this helpless anger and yet, there is something different about him.

She shakes her head, comes back to herself before she lets her thoughts distract her further. He is a patient and she has already dawdled far too long for one man. So, she puts on her best impression of her mother and soldiers on, pulling his wrist closer to her and dabbing his wound with the soaked cotton, ignoring his little gasp when she first touches his tender skin with the stinging liquid.

“Well, you’ll not find that here. We’re quite used to all the nicks and scratches a man suffers out on the front,” she says, her eyes rising to meet his, her attempt at a bright voice falling flat even as his eyebrow rises in question at her sudden change in mood.

She smiles, embarrassed at being caught out, her voice softening again before she continues.

“Sorry, some men find it comforting when we talk that way.”

Her eyes fall back to her task, unrolling a little gauze to wrap him up.

“Do you think all this is worth it? The war?”

He speaks slowly, his voice closer to her now as though he’s swayed into her space as she’s worked, bending slightly at the waist from his seat on the examination table.

“I think it doesn’t matter what I think.”

She says it as slow as he had, her own voice careful but firm with the words she speaks.

He is silent for a moment as she finishes wrapping his wound, flinching occasionally as the bandage passes over his cut. She pulls away when she's done, her eyes still following the folds of her dressing, her fingers patting down her apron before turning away to fetch something for his pain.

She’s trying to decide what dosage of morphine to give him when his voice finds her again.

“What did you tell him? The lad who asked you why he would never walk again.”

And though his voice is soft, sincere and full of what feels like genuine interest, she heeds the warning of her heart and continues her work. Choosing the higher dosage, she picks up the bottle and a spoon before moving back to him. Ignoring his question, her face as neutral as she can hold it, she hands him the medicine, directing him to take it.

“Two spoonfuls. For the pain.”

As he swallows the bitter liquid with a grimace, she fetches him a glass of water and exchanges it for the medicine that would hopefully calm the constant twitching of his hand-- closing into a fist and then back open again-- make his tightly clenched jaw loosen, allow his tired eyes to shut in peace for a little bit.

“Alright Captain Jones. I think we’re done here. Take the rest of the day to rest okay?”

“Thank you, Miss. Swan,” he nods, his sentence punctuated by a grunt as he puts his weight on his hand once more to allow him to get back to the floor from his perch on the examination table.

He smiles a tiny smile as he faces her, their bodies closer than she had anticipated. Her eyes are drawn to the blue of his, looking between them and she doesn’t realise until he’s already got her hand in his, raising it to his lips, his fingers looped loosely around hers, loose enough that she may pull out of his grasp if she pleases.

But before she can decide if she wants to, he stops. Turning her hand over so her palm faces up, his smile changes into a frown instead.

“Your hand-- it’s cut.”

The concern on his face pulls her back to herself, her heart scolding her again for letting herself be carried away by the smoothness of his voice, by the fire in him that seems to burn in a way that seems entirely too familiar.

She pulls her hand away from his and steps back, looking down at the small cut between her thumb and forefinger.

“I must have scratched it against a bottle or something. I’ll take care of it,” she says quickly, her words melting into one another.

He makes to move towards her but perhaps he sees the look on her face, the stiffness in her posture because he stops and smiles softly instead, bending at the waist into a silly bow.

“Then I will leave you to it. Thank you again.”

She almost smiles too.

* * *

After he takes his leave, Emma begins to clean up. He had been her last patient and the next nurse would be arriving soon to take over. But first, she needed to take care of the small wound on her hand.

Seated on the chair by the desk, she is just finishing cleaning it when she hears a sharp rap on the door of her room. Elsa’s head pops into view a second later.

“Oh good, you’re finished.”

“Finally. It’s been a long night,” she says absently as she finishes cleaning her wound, throwing the piece of cotton she’d been using into the bin under the desk, taking off her gloves as she stands.

“I’m afraid you might not be able to rest just yet.”

Emma's eyebrows rise in question, her heart already feeling heavy with dread. Not another, not another patient, not another heartache. She does not know if she could take it.

“It’s Henry.”

She needn’t have worried. It’s much worse. The dread in her heart quickly devolving into panic as she hears her son’s name.

“He’s supposed to be at school,” Emma says, already beginning to untie the knots that hold her apron in place, her other hand reaching for her cap to take it off.

Elsa moves closer, her voice softening a touch from the tone that she’d begun talking in and Emma’s steps become more frantic as she looks for her coat, her apron’s knot stubborn as she struggles with it while walking.

“He didn’t make it there. Kristoff found him at the recruitment office.”

Emma’s heart drops a few more inches as Elsa finishes her sentence.

“Emma, he’s tried to enlist again.”  

Elsa’s voice changes back to her _nurse_ voice then, the calming, soothing one as her arms stretch out to take Emma’s uniform from her as she hands it over, finally finding her coat behind the door, next to her bag.

“I’m-- I need to--”

She stands at the door, opening it and looking back at Elsa, putting on her wool gloves, trying to find words from behind the haze of worry she’s lost herself in.

“It’s alright. Go. Kristoff took him home. I’ll sign out for you.”

Elsa smiles softly at Emma, already beginning to fold away Emma’s hastily discarded uniform and Emma shoots a grateful smile back at her before leaving the hospital in a rush of wool and unravelling blonde hair.

* * *

It only takes her four steps out the door to realise that she's forgotten her hat, her ears catching the brunt of the cold breeze that makes her skin tighten, makes her breath crystallise in front of her.

She keeps walking though, her steps quick and firm even as she debates the merits of going back for it, her face bent low, half of it tucked into her scarf, her nose brushing the thickly knitted wool, her arms wrapped tight around herself as though trying to keep the warmth of her body trapped inside even as it feels like it is floating away on the wind.

She almost doesn't hear the frantic steps and the sound of her name shouted in between shallow, panting breaths.

“Emma! Emma wait!”

She stops and turns around to see a flustered Anna running towards her, her hair escaping her cap and her first thought is that something terrible has happened for who would brave this weather without a coat or a scarf, Anna having run out in just her uniform.

But then she sees the little blue, misshapen thing clutched in her left hand as her right rests on her cap trying to keep it from fluttering too much in the wind.

Her hat.

And Emma’s heart suddenly feels too big for her chest, her legs moving faster towards the woman who is now standing still, having seen that Emma had noticed her, a small grin on her face as she tries to straighten the little crumpled ball in her hand that is Emma’s hat.

When they finally meet in the middle, Emma raises her hand to take the hat, her lips curved into an apologetic smile as she sees Anna’s cheeks flush red with cold but Anna shakes her head in refusal and instead plops the hat on Emma’s head herself.

“He’ll be fine. Kristoff has taken him home and he’ll be fine, okay?”

Anna’s voice shakes just a little, her breath coming out in sharp puffs that she can see but Emma laughs despite herself. It’s a small, weak little laugh huffed through her nose but the warmth of her hat spreads slowly to her chest as Anna tucks Emma’s hair into her scarf, pulls the hat tighter around her ears.

“Take care of yourself, will you? I’d rather not find you frozen on the underground if I can help it. I daresay Henry wouldn’t like that either.”

Anna smiles a lopsided smile then and Emma takes her hand just as she’s pulling away.

“Thank you, Anna.”

The smiles grows wider, her eyes sparkling with affection, concern and Emma almost doesn’t know what to do with it all.

“Always,” Anna says, her fingers gripping Emma’s tight in response, “Now, go. You’ll miss the train.”

* * *

Her head falls against the window as the train moves, a gentle swaying motion, back and forth, back and forth. A little jerky at times, but soothing all the same. The sun shining through the large glass, the quiet of the early morning commute, all her fellow passengers too sleepy to do much of anything but sit in silence. All of it calms her pounding heart, her hat squeezed between her fingers, her bun slowly coming loose from all her running.

Running to the station, running her hands through her hair as she waited by the ticket counter, her thoughts running circles in her head as she stood on the platform, a breeze fluttering through occasionally as the doors open and shut, passengers entering and leaving the station.

But now as she sits on her seat on the train she takes everyday on her way to and from work, its colours, its seats, its constant swaying are a familiar and warm comfort to her troubled heart.

As is the hat currently pressed between her fingers. Her eyes fall to the petals of the tiny deep blue knitted flower on the side of it crushed between her forefinger and middle finger. She smiles softly then and begins to straighten it. Her fingers soft and gentle with first hat that her mother had ever knitted her that first winter long ago. Her first hat, her first winter in the warmth of a home that was hers, her first Christmas with gifts and parents who loved her.

The train jerks to a stop and her head bangs softly against the glass where she leans, the voice of the man making announcements filtering through as the doors open, a rush of cold air following the smaller rush of people into the train.

She finishes straightening her hat and puts her hands inside it which though gloved, are glad of the extra warmth.

The doors close and the train jerks again, her eyes closing as the newly boarded passengers, two women, behind her speak rapidly in a tongue she does not recognise.

And just like that she remembers another journey, her mind going back suddenly to a time when she had sat all alone at the bottom of a ship, swaying much like this, a little rougher perhaps, a little colder. Her clothes thinner, her body thinner too. Listening to a woman sing her baby to sleep in a tongue that though unfamiliar to her mind felt familiar to her heart.

A time when she didn’t have a mother who would knit her hats, didn’t have an Elsa who would keep an eye on her son, didn’t have an Anna who would run out into the cold in her nurse’s uniform to keep her warm, didn’t have a father who would hold her with all the strength in his body and make her feel like she could hold the world on her shoulders if she had to, as long as she had them all.

A time when she had just left a little black haired boy, her baby, in a city that had only ever hurt her in the hopes that he might find a better way, a better life.

(Not realising then, that her son was _her_ son after all and would find her eventually.)

Her eyes close, the exhaustion of the previous night finally catching up with her and with thoughts of warm hats and creaking old ships, deep blue eyes and lonely hearts, she lets the train rock her to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes, historical or otherwise:
> 
> In this chapter,
> 
> The war brought about major changes in medicine. Doctors learned the value of keeping clean in reducing infection related deaths. Antibiotics did not exist during this period, so avoiding infection of wounds was vital. The lack of antibiotics also meant that amputations were common practice to avoid spread of infection. 
> 
> Blood Transfusions were relatively new at this time, the war on the front lines with limited equipment causing doctors to come up with new ways to perform them. 
> 
> Iodine was a common antiseptic for smaller wounds like how Emma uses it in this chapter. Another common antiseptic was EUSOL (Edinburgh University Solution of Lime).
> 
> Morphine and other opiates were commonly used for pain.
> 
> My knowledge of medicine is very, very limited and though I’ve tried to be as close to what I have researched as I can, I hope you will forgive any mistakes. :)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please let me know what you think! <3


	5. Purple

_Steerage,The SS Atlantic_

_Port of Boston, USA_

_Spring, 1903_

She sits with her knees tucked into her chest, her arms around them, her eyes squeezed shut as she tries to calm her breathing.

_I'm safe, I'm safe, I'm safe._

Her heart still pounds as fiercely as it had when she had first decided to do this. Running away to England with no money, no plans, no skills- well, no _acceptable_ skills at any rate- wasn't the brightest idea but she had begun before she had had time to think it through.

Growing up in an orphanage had taught Emma three things. Never let them see you cry, never trust a gift that doesn't come with a price and a wealthy gentleman or lady is always in need of relieving a little weight from their wallets.

With nimble fingers and a steady hand, quiet footsteps and unremarkable clothes, she had become skilled in the art of picking pockets. Learning young, she had gone out with the other children to find a way to fill their bellies, their bodies too cold and small to be sated by what meagre fare they were given, forced to teach themselves to survive on their own.

It was a quick way to make a few dollars, enough to feed herself and put a roof over her head every night.

She still remembers vividly the first time she had clumsily knocked over a lady, her clothes rich and her hat an absurd thing, wide and tall enough that Emma's entire torso would fit in its frame. She remembers the overwhelming scent of jasmine as she had gone careening into her. She remembers the breathless running, her fingers clutched around the few coins she had picked up from the woman's dropped purse. She remembers the taste of the hot bread she had eaten that night, the sweetest she had ever tasted.

It had become instinct to her, a little bump into someone, a quick nod of apology and she'd be on her way, quiet as a mouse and they wouldn't even know until they tried to pay for something.

And so it had been, a man too unsteady on his feet, a wad of notes so thick it would scarcely fit in the wallet and a poster on a wall in the alley where she hid after, advertising the SS Atlantic travelling to London tomorrow.

She had begun walking to the ticket office, before she could second guess and talk herself out of it.

But even as she'd filled in her name in small block letters, her hand shaking ever so often, she'd been looking over her shoulder constantly. As if the man she had stolen from would follow her here. As if the man checking the tickets at the gate would catch her out, know that hers was paid for with pilfered money. As if one of the crew would barge in here before they could leave and have her arrested.

Even now, as she sits on her assigned bunk, her heart continues pounding its desperate rhythm as the ship finally weighs anchor. She feels the sudden jerk, her fellow passengers feel it too, more intense here in the steerage where they are closer to the bottom of the boat, shut into a large space with no walls between them, no windows around them.

The bunks around her are closely placed but not too close that it feels claustrophobic. The large compartment she is in houses the hundreds of unmarried women who have chosen to make this journey. Stacked on top of one another in their bunks, she is surrounded by women who are already in varying degrees of enthusiastic and irritated conversation with one another, companions and strangers alike.

Most of the beds in the their section of steerage are occupied but the bunk beside her is empty and she is grateful for it. She doesn't know if she can manage any more pleasant smiling and explanations of exhaustion to excuse herself from having to make conversation. So she sits hunkered down, her arms wrapped around her knees as she tries to become as small as she can.

No walls separate her from the others who accompany her on this journey, their excited chatter filtering into her ears, a raucous mix of languages and dialects, getting louder as they get further away from shore. But it is a tentative excitement, a layer of uncertainty undercutting it as they all embark on this adventure together. This group of people who had scraped together enough to leave this place for somewhere they thought was better even as people made the journey in the opposite direction everyday.

Her eyes still shut, breaths coming slower now she reaches for the small blanket at her side, pulling it over her knees, her fingers looking for and tracing the familiar stitching along its edge.

_Emma._

Her name carefully knitted into the pattern of the baby blanket, the rich purple of it against soft white clear in her mind even as her eyes remain closed. She traces her name again and again, following the thick, looping letters as she has been doing for as long as she can remember while her other hand looks for the tag, a small piece of fabric with a different name embroidered onto it.

Her breath grows deeper and softer as her fingers follow her familiar path to calm. Her mind drifts along with the ship as it sways on the ebbs and flows of the waves beneath them until she is back there.

A cold night in a lonely room when she is seven, her blanket clutched to her chest even as a boy from her orphanage tries to pull it away from her, the corner of it stretching as she backs away, pulling it out of his grip.

" _Come on Emma! Give it to me! It's not fair you get two blankets while the rest of us have to make do."_

He pulls harder. His taller frame and stronger body almost taking it away but she is overcome by a fierce possessiveness for the only thing she had left from her parents and she fights him. She fights him for even though she had already begun to feel a hopelessness, a bitterness for them for leaving her, she could not bear to part with it.

_"No! It's mine!"_

She bites him and scratches at him wildly, her mouth pulled into a feral snarl, her voice hiding a tremulous warning under shrill shrieks until he gives up and goes away.

She had hidden in the pantry that night, afraid to face the other children, the chill creeping up into her bones, her little fingers trembling as she struggled to stretch the tiny blanket to cover her cold feet and colder hands.

That is when it had scraped her, the sharp corner of the little piece of fabric sewn onto the edge of the blanket. She had pulled it out and stared at it, her fingers tracing the letters even as she had been unable to read them in the darkness.

_Nolan, England._

And just like that, she had known where she was from, begun to dream of being rescued from the cold and the hunger and taken away to England, of meeting her parents. She had begun to call herself Emma Nolan instead of the name they had given her- _Swan._ It had gone on until slowly, as the years went by, her dreams of rescue faded and then disappeared entirely, replaced instead by the walls that protect her heart now.

But even so, a part of her had never given up, her blanket and its promise of a home still giving her comfort.

Today, as she runs her fingers over these familiar marks upon the only constant in her life, for the first time, instead of comfort, she feels a restless anticipation. Her earlier panic sinking into it easily. Her belly twists with it, her heart not knowing where she was going to arrive, if she would ever find these _Nolans_ , if she was one of them, if they would even know her, accept her-

The sound of a baby's shrill cry interrupts her thoughts, her eyes opening suddenly to find the source of the sound. She finds the young woman, not much older than herself she imagines, holding a young babe to her chest in the bunk opposite and a tier above her own. The woman rocks the baby slowly back and forth, her voice a soft whisper on the waves of sound from the other occupants of the boat, from the ship itself, creaking and shifting as it moves, quieter now but still ever present. She watches at the mother shushes her baby, her voice inaudible as she talks to it, as the child slowly calms down enough that Emma can no longer hear its cries.

And then, the woman begins to sing. It is a lullaby but it is not English, German perhaps but Emma cannot be sure. Her voice floats over to Emma's bunk and she can just make out the melody, a soft thing that almost matches the rhythm of the ship rocking gently on the waves.

She finds that her fingers have clutched at her blanket so hard that her finger has fallen through a loop in the knitting. She loosens her grip but thoughts of her own baby, her own son who she'd given away not two months ago refuse to leave her.

She hadn't even seen him. His mop of dark hair peeking out from the crook of the nurse's elbow as she had turned away becoming the only image of him she knows. That and the paralysing ache in her heart that she feels today as acutely as she had done that day, as though someone has physically ripped away a part of her.

Her heart starts pounding anew, her eyes squeezing shut again, her tears dripping softly on to the blanket as her hands twist it between her fingers. Her heart needing the comfort of it even as it chides her.

She hadn't even given him this. A token, a sign, something to tell him that she had loved him. Something to keep him warm when he was al-

No, he wouldn't be alone.

He'd have _her_.

_"Mrs Nolan, wake up!"_

Lady Regina Mills, the woman whose family owned the hospital where Emma had gone with all the money she had, a false name and promises of an imaginary husband, to have her baby.

Lady Mills had come to Emma in the dead of night, her voice like a whip cracking in the silence of Emma's room, her face lit by a dim candle. She had looked like a statue, marble skin, dark hair and darker eyes. Emma remembers her voice still, it's steady cadence ringing in her ears, overpowering the young mother's soft lullaby.

_"I believe that we should be frank with one another. I know you don't have a husband coming soon to see you. I know you don't have the means or the potential to raise a child. So, I have an offer to make."_

Her words had stung despite the hints of truth that Emma saw in them. She had been ready to refuse, afraid of the steel in her gaze and the unbending curve of her mouth. But as she spoke of her baby, Lady Mills' voice had softened and curved, her face breaking into a soft smile.

_"He will know of no mother but me. But I can promise that he will be well taken care of. Loved and wanted and given everything he can imagine."_

And she had felt herself softening too. Lady Mills had been everything Emma had wished she herself could be for her baby, much more suited to raise a child, with her home and her money. More than sufficient compensation for Lady Mills' own lack of husband.

_"I will tell them you ran away, afraid of the responsibility or something similar."_

So she had agreed. Sneaked out of the hospital in the dead of night and allowed Lady Mills to tell the story of a scared young girl who abandoned a sweet baby in a big city, allowed herself to become a shadow on the wind, a woman with no name to the son she had never known.

She hadn't given him anything. Except perhaps a chance at a better life.

She has never been one for prayer, but she thinks of him then, the little mop of black hair and the soft hiccupping cries as the woman continues to sing and she hopes that someone is singing him to sleep tonight too.

"Hey sister, are you okay?"

A gruff voice pulls her from her thoughts and she looks up to find a man looking at her. He is older, flecks of grey visible in his hair, carrying a small valise and settling into the bunk beside her. Perhaps there had been some confusion, they don't usually have men and women in the same-

"They ran out of space and this was the only bunk they had left," he says answering the questioning look on her face. He sits, his feet dangling off the edge as he faces her, a scowl on his face but strange concern in his eyes all the same.

She doesn't answer, only quickly swipes at her cheeks and sits straighter, her blanket falling to a soft pile at her feet as her knees rise higher.

"First time out?"

She nods her head, her hackles rising in defence as the strange man continues to talk to her. The steerage was such that it was inevitable having to interact with fellow passengers, their beds all stuffed together in the space but Emma has found it a good practice to distrust people until proven otherwise. The man seems to catch on to her apprehension, his hands going up in a motion of surrender.

"Hey, easy. You just look a little green is all. This place can be difficult for a first timer. We're really close to the bottom of the boat so every time this thing moves, we're going to feel it," his eyes leave her to scan the rest of the large space, beams and pillars the only thing separating one group of beds from another "and when there's bad weather, we're stuck down here for days, no fresh air, no one but each other for company and the _smell-_ "

"That's supposed to help me feel better?"

She's saying the words before she can finish thinking them, her voice coming out stronger than her heart feels. But the man doesn't take offence, only chuckling softly in response.

"Not really. But it's worth it isn't it? Where you're going, it's gotta be worth it to travel there like this."

His eyes find her again and despite herself, she sees kindness there and she wants to trust it.

"I hope so."

He smiles then and the sour look on his face suddenly softens into something much younger.

"I'm Leroy."

"Emma Swan."

* * *

 

_London, England_

_Winter, 1915_

The walk to the house seems longer than usual.

Perhaps it's not the walk.

But the ache in her back from standing all night, the ache in her head from her brief but heated interaction with the chill wind of London in winter, the ache in her heart from the sadness in Philip's smile, from the pain hidden carefully in Captain Jones' smooth voice.

The ache in her very bones from the fact that her twelve year old boy had tried to join them.

She walks slower even as her heart pounds faster. A twinge of guilt niggling at the back of her mind even as her heart fills with dread for what awaits her when she gets home.

There is a bridge that she crosses on the walk from the station to her home. It is a sturdy thing, brick and mortar and curved gently over the part of the Thames that flows through here. She has always loved this bridge. In her first uncertain days in this home, this had been her place to stand and look out at the water, at the almost endlessness of the river as it flowed away into nothing, to calm her soul, to ease her often troubled mind.

But today as she walks along it, the cold breeze from the river stabs through her skin like needles, her every step becoming heavy until she walks leaning against the deep red painted railing of the bridge.

It has been but a year since she has learned her son's name, since she has begun to learn how to be a mother. Her own mother, though ripped away from her child for eighteen long years, has the tender heart, the soft voice that a child needs, that a mother is supposed to have.

But, Emma. Emma with a heart too broken, its edges too jagged, she worries that she will only hurt her son in place of comforting him.

So, as she often does, she tries to remember what her mother had done for _her_ , the first time she had stepped into this house with her head bowed, her hands rough, her heart a tender, skittish thing. She remembers the kindness, the joy, the love her parents had given her when they had realised that she was the daughter they had left behind when they thought that they had nothing. That she was the little bundle they had handed over to a person they thought they could trust so that she may have a life better than they could give her.

The dream of blonde hair and sparkling laughter they had been chasing ever since.

She remembers the apologies.

They hadn't known, they said. Emma had been and has been the love of their lives but they had had nothing. No money, no prospects, no future. When she came into their life, they hadn't known.

They hadn't known that David would inherit an estate, a title from a brother and a father who had disowned him for daring to love a woman they deemed unworthy. They hadn't known that not a year after they had come home to England, not a year after a failed attempt to make a life in the country where dreams came true, theirs would.

They finally had enough to support themselves and so many more.

But they no longer had her.

Until that night, eighteen years later when Emma Swan stepped into the Nolan Orphanage looking for the woman who ran it, looking for the woman who shared her name.

(Later, between tears and hugs, she had realised that she shared her eyes too. A little bit of her chin.)

But, families have a way of repeating history, she thinks, her steps slowing further as she traces the initials _H.S_ that have been carved into the stone at the end of the bridge by a young hand and shaky fingers.

And so it had gone with them. Henry arriving at the same doorstep eleven years after she had given him away to the hope of a better life. His fingers wrapped around an old hospital form that read _Emma Nolan_ \- a sentimental slip on her part when she had been admitted, a desperate, yearning effort to not be alone- his face dirty with soot, his eyes bright and curious, hopeful somehow, even as the rest of the world had begun to have a war. Even as he himself had lost a mother recently and travelled across oceans in search of another.

He had told Mary Margaret his story. He had told her that his own mother, the only one he had ever known, had succumbed to influenza and as she lay dying she had told him that he had other family.

And that as soon as he had found out, he had run away from his now empty home and begun his quest. Her mother had brought him home and accepted him with not a question asked, not a disapproving look, not a disappointed stare.

Emma had not been at home at the time, having volunteered to join the VADs a few months before. With her steady hand and deft fingers, she had learned quickly and been sent to the front to fight the war to keep their men alive.

Mary Margaret had written to her immediately, calling for her to come meet her son.

After the initial shock, a letter slipping from loosened fingers, a name resting foreign on her tongue- a name finally to put to the image of dark hair in a nurse's arms-Emma had requested reassignment at once and come home.

Her house comes into view and it looks just as impressive as it had fourteen years ago. All big gates and beautiful gardens, the small estate still looks like a castle to her. She wonders how it had looked to Henry when he had come home. Had he too stared in awe at the beauty of the roses that lined the outside of the house, perfectly trimmed and blooming in a multitude of colours. Had he too seen David with his big hat and his beautiful clothes, the lord of the house, crouching in the dirt tending to the plants and felt a gentle warmth settle in his heart. Had he too wondered if Mary Margaret's smile was magic, her hands soft and sure as she held his.

Had he felt that overwhelming amalgam of fear and anticipation and joy as she had.

For the day that he had stepped into the their lives, from the moment her mother had brought him home, he had become theirs. The guest room upstairs immediately refurbished to be his, her father making jokes about how runaways ran in the family, her mother feeding him until his cheeks grew round and his body grew healthy.

But for Emma it had been harder. Though she had immediately asked to be stationed closer to home, though Henry had hugged her about her waist as soon as he'd seen her, though they had concocted a story to explain Henry's sudden appearance and her noticeable lack of a husband-

(Something about a shipwreck and lost families finding one another. Most people had just looked at her with misty eyes and accepted the story with no questions asked.)

Despite it all, it had been difficult.

She had spent the first few months hiding from him, her hands reaching for him but pulling back at the last minute, her breath catching every time he called her mother. Her heart had been nurturing a storm of guilt and shame and anxiety until the day her father had talked to her.

_(He wants you in his life, Emma. I know it's hard but I thank whoever is up there everyday that you wanted us in yours. Give yourself a chance.)_

Her feet finally bring her to her doorstep and she stops a moment, her hand reaching for the keys in her coat pocket, hiding in the warmth for a second longer as she collects herself, as she tries to stop the pounding in her chest that makes her feel like she is drowning.

A deep breath.

One.

Two.

She opens the door.

* * *

 

"More tea, madam?"

"No, I'm alright. Thank you, Johanna."

Her mother's voice drifts through to her as she closes the door behind her quickly, trying to keep the warmth of the house contained even as a small gust of wind kisses her cheek as she shuts it. She begins to take off her coat and scarf but even as she takes the weight of the wool off her shoulders, they still feel strained under the weight of all that clouds her mind.

Her shoes click softly against the wood of the floor, the sound disappearing as she steps into their carpeted parlour where her mother sits. A fire burns behind her as she sways softly on a rocking chair, knitting lying forgotten in her hands, her eyes fixed somewhere far away outside the window that she faces. Her lips turned down, her brows furrowed in a gentle frown, her hair glinting silver in the sunlight, Emma is suddenly struck by how old her mother looks.

She feels just about as tired.

Mary Margaret's raises her head from her knitting to look up as Emma steps into the room, her glasses perched on her nose, her hands stilling as her frown of concentration melts into a soft smile.

Emma feels her shoulders lighten just a little.

"Oh! Emma, you're home. How was your day?" Mary Margaret says as she puts her knitting away, moving to stand.

"It was alright." Emma finds herself replying instinctively. Used to hiding her feelings, it is a habit she had developed early that hadn't left her despite the years she has spent with her parents. Her eyes drift towards the stairs that lead up to Henry's bedroom, her twinge of guilt sharpening into a prickling in her belly.

"Henry?"

Mary Margaret's smiles drops a little bit as her eyes follow Emma's to the stairs.

"He's alright. Your father is talking to him. We hoped that maybe he might-"

Her eyes are going up the stairs one at a time, counting them as she breathes, as she tries to calm the agitation that twists inside her.

The stairs with their green carpet spilling into the ground floor of their home bears the marks of Henry's life in this house. A year now he'd raced down these stairs every single day, his hand sliding down the banister, his happy voice ringing out into the halls. A year now he had shown her that it does not matter how long you have known someone to love them with all your heart. That it does not matter that she is still learning how to be a mother, still floundering in her quest to be someone she never had as a child. God, she loves him and she knows he loves her but-

"I worry about him," Her mother's voice is soft, her hand coming to rest on Emma's shoulder.

"So do I."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in this update! I've been travelling and it's been hard to stick to a writing schedule. But anyway, moving on to--
> 
> Notes, historical or otherwise:
> 
> In this chapter,
> 
> The Steerage was the lower deck of a ship which was often used by immigrants and people who could not afford the more expensive second class and first class cabins. Conditions in Steerage were pretty horrible with a large number of people stuffed into small spaces, no windows and limited time on deck. If there was a storm, they would be stuck down there for ages.
> 
> Early steerage was just one large room filled with as many people as they could fit, common bathrooms and bunks even in the common dining area. People were expected to wash their own dishes and the only privacy was the extent of their bunk. By Emma's time, they had begun to separate the steerage into three compartments, men, women and married people.
> 
> It cost about $25 to cross the Atlantic Ocean in steerage in 1903. The price went down to $10 in 1904 as more companies began offering the transatlantic trip.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Thank you so so much to everyone who has commented and liked. I really, really appreciate it more than you know <333
> 
> Please let me know what you think :)


	6. Amber

_London, England_

_Winter, 1915_

Her eyes fix on the grain of the wooden counter against which she leans, tracing the whirls and circles in the pattern of the wood even as her mind drifts in circles, softly upon the waves of her thoughts. Drifting, drifting until just like that, she is there again.

The sounds of explosions in the distance and shouting numbing her ears, smoke in her lungs making her cough, screaming soldiers surrounding her as she and her fellow nurses try to help. Fruitlessly, helplessly. As men come and go from beneath her fingers, as she holds lives in her bloodstained hands without ever knowing their names.

The sound fills her ears even now, drowning out the soft piano that someone had begun to play. Her eyes squeezing shut as she tries to come back to herself, come back to now.

_Come back._

_Come back._

"Another?"

She looks up to find Leroy looking at her, his voice gruff but his eyes soft in a way that is familiar to her now. She nods at him and smiles gratefully, sliding her glass back across the counter.

She sits at the end of the bar at The Warren House, her shoulders slumped, her coat hanging off the back of the high chair upon which she sits, her braided hair tucked into a hat pulled low over her head and her body hidden under layers of baggy men's clothes.

This isn't the first time that she had decided to come to an old friend's pub to hide.

Over the last fourteen years, Leroy had remained a grumpy but constant friend, their journeys in this foreign yet familiar land entwined. Emma settling into a life with a family and Leroy without one. Leaving his seven brothers behind, he had built a life here, first as a bartender and later proprietor of the The Warren House.

And ever since the first argument she had had with her father, a few months into her arriving in London, he had let her come here whenever she liked, let her stay past the mandated closing times and allowed her to slump in the chair at the end of the bar, keeping unwanted attention away from her.

A small pub hidden into the end of a street, a single door marked with its name, the Warren House's small winding rooms are largely filled with regulars and loyal patrons. Quiet and familiar, the pub feels like a warm blanket with its soft lantern light, with the mismatched flower pots on the window sills, with the little piano tucked into a corner for anyone to play.

It is the perfect place to hide and tonight, she hides from Henry.

Just after six in the evening, the pub is getting ready to open for the supper shift in accordance to the new wartime rules. Already people are beginning to slowly make their way down the roadside to the pub. But as Emma sits in the corner, her eyes watching the amber liquid in her glass sway as Leroy passes it back to her, she cannot help but hear Henry's voice, his words echoing in her head again and again. The soft melody of the piano a sharp contrast to Henry's shrill protests as she had all but shouted at him in her fear for his safety.

_"But mom, I just want to do my part! I want to help, be a hero! Like my dad!"_

_"Henry, no!"_

_"But-"_

_"No! I am your mother and I know best and I say that you go to school. Do you understand?"_

Emma's eyes squeeze shut as she remembers, her hand closing tightly around the glass as she takes a long drag. He had gone to school, his shoulders lower, his eyes dimmer and she had fallen into a fitful sleep, only to wake in a cold sweat, a scream in her throat, the shadow of crimson staining her hands. She had come back to the city then, mumbling to her mother about having forgotten something at the hospital as she had rushed out the door.

The sound of someone starting to sing washes over her but the words are lost to her as Henry's voice rings louder than everything else.

_"Just like my dad!"_

It was supposed to be a small lie. A little fib she had told in her initial panic to spare Henry more pain when he had just lost his adoptive mother to influenza. When he had traveled a thousand miles to find _her_ , with a name scribbled in a shaky hand by a mother looking to give her child his best chance just like Emma had all those years ago.

It was supposed to be a small lie because she could not bear to tell him that his father had abandoned her, that he had left her to fend for herself when she had found herself with child, that he was a liar who had betrayed her, who had broken her heart.

So she had told him instead that he was a brave man who died fighting for his country.

Henry's eyes had lit up at the story and she had thought that perhaps she had done well for her first test as his mother. But now she wonders if she would have done better to tell him the truth.

For now, his head full of dreams of glory and heroism, only fueled further by the constant barrage of propaganda that surrounds them, by the story she had told him, her boy who is not yet 14 wants to join the ranks of the men who pass through her hospital each day.

The singing gets louder as more men join in, the chorus becoming a raucous affair as the piano gets louder.

_Who wouldn't join the army?_

_That's what we all inquire_

_Don't we pity the poor civilians sitting around the fire._

_Oh! Oh! Oh! it's a lovely war,_

_Who wouldn't be a soldier eh?_

She smiles a small, bitter smile and takes another drink.

* * *

_Casualty Clearing Station 5,_

_Somewhere in France_

_Autumn, 1914_

The stretchers just keep coming.

One then two then twenty, they hadn't stopped since the ambulances had first pulled up into the grounds a few minutes ago.  The night is moonless, stars twinkling merrily in the sky as Emma stands outside the doors that lead into the small hall of the abandoned school.

Thoroughly understaffed and never prepared enough, the team that makes up CCS 5 along with two other CCS' had taken up residence in two schools and a chateau in an abandoned French town not three miles from the front lines two nights ago.

And tonight, just a few hours past midnight, it had begun.

The sound of shelling muted but still apparent, the earth trembling with the aftershocks of the assault upon it. Emma had been stationed in the resuscitation ward, tasked with making sure the men were comfortable, writing letters home for the ones who couldn't, being a comfort and helping the nurses in whatever way she could as they lay the more serious cases in heated beds and performed blood transfusions for the ones who needed it. She had waited there ready, her heart pounding in her chest, her hands just on the edge of shaking as the nurses and orderlies began preparing their equipment.

But then, the stretchers had begun to arrive.

In they came, borne upon wood and pieces of fabric, their bodies caked with dust and mud and blood. Bodies in all states of ruin, they came in with pieces of themselves missing, a leg, an eye, an arm. Some came with bullets and shell fragments embedded in their skin and bones, spitting blood and gasping for breath. Some came in quiet and seemingly unharmed save for the single mark where a bullet had entered them, the ones who bled on the inside, afraid to be touched. Some walked in, but only barely. Their injuries hastily bandaged, splinted and wrapped, treated just well enough at their regimental aid posts to make it to the CCS.

The ambulances continued to arrive, the men flooding the rooms and spilling over into the corridors, stretchers and make shift beds everywhere as orderlies and nurses and surgeons rushed between them.

Resuscitation, as Emma had discovered quite quickly, was a terrible place. Originally meant to be a place for the shocked, collapsed and the dying, for men who were not able to stand operations yet but who might after some time in the heated beds that filled the room, after blood transfusions had been performed on them. But to Emma it had become somewhere men who were too far gone to help, or too much trouble to help were sent to live out their final moments. She had been here, holding the hand of a man twisting in his sheets, his eyes fluttering in a fever dream as she waited for him to pass. Her third in an hour, she had felt as though her soul was falling away from her like leaves from a tree.

But even so, she had been trying to remember the names. The names of the men and women they loved, the names they whispered and whimpered into the night as they went.

She had begun to chant them softly in her mind

_Ashley, Edward, John-_

Again and again and again until it never became easier.

Emma had been here when her matron had come in and pulled her out to the doors.

Their reception officer called into the operation ward to assist their surgeon, a clipboard thrust into her arms and a quick instruction of how she was to assist the orderly who had replaced him in identifying and sorting the men-

_Worst cases and best go to resuscitation, men we can send back go to pre-op, everyone who's finished goes to evacuation. Understand? Emma, I need you to say yes. Do you understand?_

Yes, she had whispered then at first. Her voice lost somewhere between the man who'd come one with a part of his jaw missing and another who has lost his leg. Yes, she'd said again. Stronger this time, grit her teeth and clenched her fists and gotten on with it.

Now she stands by the doors and watches them come.

Their faces melt into one another, drawn lips, empty eyes when they could see or when she could see their faces. But, most disconcerting is the lack of sound. Most of the men in shock and some beyond it now, they do not speak, they do not scream, they do not cry out in pain and it feels as though she is collecting all their silent agony in her lungs, her chest tight as she tries to keep her fingers from shaking, as she tries to keep her voice steady.

The words become like a horrible prayer.

Resuss, Pre-Op, Evac she says as they pass beneath her. Her heart splintering just a little bit more each time she sends a man who may need help to resuss because he could not go back to the front. His life somehow worth less now that he had given so much of himself away to this war.

"Nurse! Nurse, we need someone here!"

But even though the men don't speak, the surgeon's voice almost drowns beneath the waves of sound from outside that still assault her ears, shouts of nurses and orderlies layered upon the sounds of distant shelling, of explosions that rock the earth beneath them.

Their ramshackle, reclaimed school turned Casualty Clearing Station feels unsteady on its foundations, her feet swaying from exhaustion or fear, she does not know.

She is just directing a man clutching his leg, a large gash in it staining his trousers to the pre-op ward when she hears the surgeon again, more frantic this time, his voice cracking as he calls for-

"Nurse!"

Emma's eyes find him, the man with the shocking blonde hair. Their surgeon who she had seen just last night smoking a cigarette by moonlight and humming a tune about home. The man who now stands with his hand trying to hold a soldier down who struggles against him, his eyes bloodshot and his scream silent as his mouth opens and yet no sound comes out.

_"Nurse!"_

"Emma," she hears a voice, a hand at her shoulder. Strangely, not screaming like the rest of the world seems to be at that moment, her matron speaks softly, as though trying to calm the latent panic in Emma's body.

"I need you to go help the doctor. Can you do that for me?"

Though her voice is calm, her face betrays her. Her matron, an older woman with greying hair and a voice that would freeze an ocean in its stride, the woman with not a hair out of place in even the most dire situations, the woman whose clothes carried not a shadow of a stain, the woman whose intense propriety that had been an annoyance at first and slowly become a comfort now stands before her with that same propriety lying shattered at her feet.

It is the wild look in her eyes that seems to mirror Emma's, the silent plea that lay dormant behind a face that was trying to hang on to confidence by a fraying rope that brings the strength into Emma's voice as she agrees.

She lets her clipboard and pencil- completely useless tools as she had come to realise but they had given her a sort of odd comfort, given her something to hold onto- are taken away from her and she finds herself taking step after step to the surgeon trying to calm the man who struggles against him still.

As she gets closer she begins to see the red. The blood that stains the sheets, the doctor's gloves, every piece of fabric that seems to be in contact with the injured soldier. The blood that looks like it is far too much to be flowing out of one person. The blood that drips from the man's left hand, his fingers a mangled mess, little bits of white bone peeking from beneath the crimson.

Emma swallows deeply, choking back the bile that rises in her throat, the sob caught somewhere in her belly before taking the soldier's other hand from the surgeon and holding down his leg, freeing up the surgeon to continue his work. She finds herself whispering soothing nonsense as her fingers stroke over the soldier's wrist, the doctor shooting her a grateful glance as the man begins to settle, his eyes still fluttering, his fist still clenching even as the blood continues to drip from his injury.

"We're going to have to amputate. The hand is too infected, too-."

Broken.

The surgeon's voice is a frantic whisper for Emma's ears alone as he begins to prepare his equipment, the tourniquet, the guillotine.

"Hold him down."

She nods shakily as she turns away from her surgeon and the bloody work he does, focussing instead on the man whose life sways precariously one breath to the next, whose hand she holds, whose eyes don't see her even as she tries to comfort him in what little way she can.

A breath.

The soldier's jaw clenches, his grip on her hand growing tighter as the surgeon fixes the tourniquet.

Another and his grip gets tighter still, his silent scream finally vocalised as the surgeon cuts through his injured arm.

The soldier's grip on her hand finally loosens, blood rushing to her fingertips, his hand falling away as he passes out from the pain.

And when she pulls away from him is when she sees it. Her hands stained with the deepest of crimson, spreading from her fingers to her wrist like she had pressed her hands into a wet painting.

It is then that she realises.

She didn't even know his name.

* * *

_London, England_

_Winter,1915_

It had gone on for thirty six more hours.

She had stood there and assisted her surgeon-Victor, he'd said after their fourth amputation. They had spent a night in hell together after all, there was no need for formalities-as the men passed beneath her. Even though at first she had only helped with keeping the men still and calm, as the number of men increased with every new ambulance that pulled in, Victor began to allow her to dress and clean wounds.

Her deft fingers and steady hand a valuable asset in a time where it looked like the flood of the injured would never end.

Thirty six hours she had spent with her hands stained red until finally the last of the somewhat fit men had been sent out on the hospital train, until the last of the dead had been moved, until finally Victor took off his gloves.

She had gone for a walk then.

Through the tiny village and on and on until there was only the sky above and the earth below. On and on until she hit the edge of a small stream. On and on until the scent of medicine and bodies slowly began to dissipate from her nose. The sunlight reflecting off the flowing water made patterns of gold on a tree that hung over the stream, a large bird perched on a branch screeched loudly in the silence. She had let the bird's cacophonous song, the babbling of the water upon the stones and gentle rustling of leaves drown out the voice of Second Corporal Mason whispering for his daughter in between gasping breaths.

She had taken off her shoes first, let the wetness of the earth seep through her stockings before pulling them off too. The ribbon that secured her hair in a braid had been next. The breeze fluttering through her hair, feeling cool on her neck. The cold wasn't comfortable but it had woken her. It had brought her out of the hazy mire of adrenaline and borrowed pain and red, red, red.

She had sat there with her feet in the cold water, her hands dipped in it too, watching the red from her fingers dilute away into nothing as the water flowed.

She is staring at her hands still, she realises. In the warmth of the pub, a hundred miles and a year away from that night, she feels like the red has still not left her hands.

The clattering sound of a bowl dropping to the table startles her out of her thoughts, Leroy's voice following quickly.

"Eat something, would you?"

She looks at the bowl of peanuts that he'd pushed to her across the counter before meeting his eyes, a grateful smile on her face even as ignores the food and takes another sip of her drink.

Leroy only shakes his head, pointing at the bowl one more time and raising his eyebrows before turning away to attend to a customer calling his name.

"C'mon Leroy! Let me buy some drinks would you?"

She smiles to herself as she takes a handful of the nuts. She hears this same argument about twelve times a night.

"So you're going to be drinking ten pints of ale are you? All at once now?"

Ever since the _No Treating Order_ had been put into place, the arguments at the pub had gotten more and more ridiculous. Since people weren't allowed to buy drinks for anyone but themselves, their excuses for attempting to buy a disproportionately large number of drinks had gotten fairly absurd.

She had once seen a man down five pints of ale in five minutes because Leroy wanted to be convinced that they were for him alone and not for the raucous band of men sitting a few tables away who had come in with him.

"Aye! What do you take me for? I'm a big boy! I can handle my drink just fine."

She doesn't hear Leroy's response, her ears suddenly filled with her father's voice.

_"Well, you're a big boy now aren't you Henry? Almost as tall as I am!"_

There is a panic in her gut, the sleeping kind where she knows that it is waiting to come out of her any day now. Kicking, screaming and demanding to be felt. But tonight, all it does is twist just a little tighter. He's so tall, her boy, far past the minimum height to enlist. His voice already sounding like a man's, his shoulders rising above the other children at school and the fear that always lies dormant in the back of her mind shows itself again.

What if one day Kristoff doesn't find him? What if one day he tries to enlist and someone lets him? What if one day an officer doesn't look to closely at the softness of his jaw, at the slight thin edge to his voice? What if one day someone looks away and just like that he would be gone?

Her hand is closed so tight around her glass, she can see her knuckles turn white. She loosens it slightly before tilting her head back and draining the glass. She feels her braid slip out of her hat, landing with a soft weight on her back.

The glass makes a loud noise as she puts it back on the table and signals Leroy for another, her hand already going to hide her hair back under the hat, hoping that nobody has noticed.

But she is too late.

"Fancy seeing you here, love."

She turns around at the sound of the voice. A familiar echo from her morning that somehow feels like an entirely different day, as she finds herself lost somewhere in a haze between memories of blood and little boys.

It takes her a minute to respond, to gather up the words scattered in the corners of her mind.

"Captain Jones," she nods at him, clearing her throat, her voice hoarse from disuse, "and that's Miss Swan to you."

She wishes she sounded more stern than she does but she cannot seem to find the energy for it.

"Miss Swan," he nods back, the smile on his face small but bright even as he looks just as disheveled, just as unsettled as he had that morning. His hair flopping over his eyebrows, his scarf askew, his coat unbuttoned to his waist. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she feels a dim notion that she ought to ask him about his wound, ask him to sit even. But, the alcohol swimming through her veins and the thoughts swimming through her head make her feel heavy and slow and all she wants now is to be alone.

So, she turns away and stares determinedly at her drink, as if it were going to speak at any moment, hoping fiercely that he would leave.

But, just as she takes another sip, she hears the shuffling sounds of someone taking the seat next to her. She feels the warmth radiating from his coat, black and thick wool, she almost wants to bury her face in it and breathe deep.

She frowns at her drink then, as though blaming it for the strange errant thoughts that flit through her mind.

"A glass of rum, mate?"

His voice is rough, rumbling through him and though she wants no conversation with this or any other man, she does not want to move either so she continues stubbornly staring into the amber liquid that swirls in her glass, hoping that he will stay silent.

"So, Miss Swan, what br-"

She looks up at him as soon as she hears him turn in his seat to face her, his smile still there, his eyes still storming softly. She cuts him off before he can finish. His mouth hangs open for a moment as she speaks.

"Captain Jones, I apologise but I'm afraid I am not feeling up to making conversation at the moment."

He chuckles, his mouth closing, his shoulders softening and falling before turning back to face the bar.

"I must confess that I am not feeling up to speaking much myself."

Her eyes trace his form, hunched over the counter, shadows and light playing upon his face in the dim light of the pub. She sees cheekbones rise softly as he continues to wear the remnants of his wry chuckle on his face.

Leroy slides a glass of rum to him, his eyebrows rising in question as he passes her, asking without speaking if she was alright. She nods at him, a wordless and grateful yes.

"Would you be amenable to a silent drinking partner then?"

She turns again to meet his eyes when he speaks. He still faces the bar but he looks at her sideways from under his lashes, his mouth curved into the smallest of smiles, quiet and hopeful.

He raises his glass towards her.

And she does not know why she does it. Perhaps it is the fact that despite how she had tried to ignore it, she sees the same quiet rage in him that she carries around herself. Perhaps it is the sincerity in his voice, the truth in his smile. Perhaps it is the fact that his eyes seem to tell the same story as hers.

Or perhaps it is just the fact that she does not want to be alone any more than he does.

She raises her glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Notes, historical or otherwise:
> 
> In this chapter,
> 
> The song they're singing in Leroy's pub is a real song. Songs like that, meant to raise spirits about the war were very popular at the time.
> 
> The Great War brought about a change in women's traditional roles as the men went off to war and women began to work. They also began to frequent pubs and drink even though authorities thought this was a bad idea.
> 
> Alcohol was considered to be a new and terrible problem for the home front and laws were put in place to curtail drinking. Two of which were cutting down on pub hours, allowing them to open for lunch (12:00 to 14:00) and later to supper (18:30 to 21:30) and the No Treating Order which only allowed for people to buy drinks for themselves ie; you couldn't buy a round of drinks for everyone in your party.
> 
> Though at first authorities were unwilling to send VADs to the front lines, the restriction was lifted in 1915. But for the purposes of this story, Emma goes in 1914.
> 
> Casualty Clearing Stations were the Fourth step in the evacuation procedure for injured soldiers from the front. It began with Stretcher Bearers on the field itself who then transported the soldiers to a Regimental Aid Post where urgent medical care was given. They were then sent via Motor Ambulance to Casualty Clearing Stations. CCS' were usually a a bit of distance behind the lines and the closest a female nurse was allowed to the conflict. Here soldiers who needed more serious attention were tended to and those who could be sent back were tended to as well. Blood transfusions and emergency operations and amputations were performed here. Once the soldiers had been made stable, they were packed onto a hospital train and sent to a base hospital where they completed their journey.
> 
> CCS' were split into 6 sections. A Reception Marquee, A Resuscitation tent, a pre-operation tent, an operation tent, an evacuation tent and a ward tent.
> 
> The minimum height for an enlisting soldier had to be 5'3" and they had to be at least 18. But due to the shortage of men and the large demand for soldiers, recruiters sometimes overlooked the age limit and sometimes younger boys slipped through the cracks. The youngest soldier of the Great War was 13.
> 
> I hope you liked this chapter and please do let me know what you think! :)


	7. Yellow

_London, England_

_Winter, 1915_

The clink of her glass against his rings like a clear bell on a sunny day.

After he had left the hospital, he had gone back to his house and signed the crumpled sheets of paper that still lay on the table next to his palette, next to the half finished painting of his last battle, of the night all this had begun. He had signed the sheet and felt as though he had signed himself away to that night again.

And to many more like it.

As soon as he had posted his application for the War Artist programme, he'd found the first pub around the corner and gone in. The morphine from that morning still coursed through him but its effects had faded a while ago, the pain in his arm and the helplessness in his heart returning to him in a rush, filling in the spaces that had been numbed by the medicine. He had only expected to drink alone in silence, let the weight of the day drown in the liquid in his glass.

He hadn't expected to see her.

_Emma._

Through the small crowd in the tavern and the dim light, he had spotted her immediately. His heart, though at the moment, a sad, helpless thing had beat just a bit faster when he had. Her hair was hidden under a hat, but unable to hide the loose curls of blonde escaping it. She sat slumped over the bar, her hand clutching her glass, her head bowed above it. She was dressed in mens' clothes, he had realised. Breeches and a loose coat meant to hide her and though he had sensed that perhaps she did not desire company, he hadn't been able to stop himself from going up to her.

Ready to back away at the slightest sign of discomfort, he had first immediately regretted disturbing her, even as he had sat down beside her, even as he had wanted to soothe whatever it was that hurt her. But he had been glad that she had accepted his request, glad that she had read what he had hoped his eyes and his words had told her.

That all he wants is to not be alone.

Now as he looks at her sitting beside him, he isn't sure what it is about her that makes him feel this way. Perhaps it is because he is seeing something beautiful after all this time. Perhaps it is the colours of her, gold and green like a field of daffodils, so very different from the stormy blues and blinding reds of his dreams. Perhaps it is just because when he sees her, he does not think of blood and broken bones, empty beds and empty smiles.

_Oh! Oh! Oh! it's a lovely war,_

_What do we want with eggs and ham_

_When we've got plum and apple jam?_

The sound of men singing at the piano get louder with every line, their voices rising in a cacophony of tuneless shouting for the final verse of the song.

His eyes leave her to find them. They stand holding drinks, arms around one another, singing about glories and heroism and god help him, he wants to shake every one of them. Young and bare faced, their eyes betray their age, naive and full of a kind of desperate hope, a longing to do _something_.

He shakes his head in wonder at how well the world has convinced these boys that the war was their one chance for to do it, their one chance for greatness. How well the world had not allowed for anything else to be.

As he turns back to his drink he finds her looking at him, her eyes searching his, scanning for something and finding it as she nods softly at him, her mouth curving into a knowing smile. As if she has found the reflection of her own thoughts in his.

It is the tiniest curving up of her mouth, her eyes twinkling softly as the green of them seems to shine in the golden light of the pub. He files the moment away in his mind, his paint stained fingers already itching to somehow capture this moment, to hold on to this woman, this smile, these eyes that soothe his troubled heart like so little has been able to.

To hold on to this silent moment of comfort and solidarity.

The sounds of the men singing by the piano fall away as they scatter to find drinks and other sources of entertainment and he and Emma continue to sit in silence, occasionally taking a sip from their drinks but mostly just sitting with one another, allowing the warmth of the other at their side reassure them of something they couldn't place.

Fifteen minutes pass and then a half hour and Killian feels himself sinking into his seat, his mind drifting soft and heavy upon waves of thoughts that feel warm, steering safely away from anything that would pull him out of this happy silence. He watches Emma's hand resting on the counter as Leroy comes to take away their glasses to refill. He watches her fingers, long and thin and bare of jewellery resting next to his own calloused, larger hand still wearing traces of his work last night, shadows of blues and purples staining the tips of his fingers.

Eventually she finishes the last of her drink and stands up. The warmth of her disappears from his side as she moves away and he feels his heart jump as he feels her warmth move behind him instead, her hand on his shoulder.

It is a slight pressure, a squeeze of her fingers on his coat as she leaves.

"Thank you," she whispers, her voice tapering away into nothing as she walks away. He only sees her back as she goes, her shoulders falling into her coat and scarf as she opens the door, her hand holding her hat to her head, a few locks of her hair escaping it as a chill gust of wind winds through the pub.

When he gets back home that evening, he squeezes out some fresh yellow paint onto his palette and mounts a fresh canvas on his easel.

* * *

It's a strangely sunny day when his acceptance letter to the War Artist Programme arrives.

Most of London has taken to the streets, deciding to enjoy the brief respite from the wind and the cold, drinking in the sunshine, allowing themselves to walk out with one layer less than usual. But Killian sits at a seat by the window at home, his eyes tracing the barely there wisps of white as they float softly in the sea of blue, blue sky.

The envelope had arrived that morning, a thick thing filled with instructions and requirements, dates and locations for him to report to. The papers now lie spread upon his little dining table behind him even as the words in them flash through his mind.

_Congratulations, we are happy to inform you that your application has been accepted._

_The following requirements need to be met before you-_

_will be transferred to the Armed Forces-_

_travelling to France on the 5th of December-_

_Medical exam and submit to-_

_fit yourself for a uniform._

He closes his eyes, his forehead resting in his hand as he tries to calm the churning thoughts in his head, the lists of things that will need to be done, all the preparation, the uniforms, the medical exams.

The oath taking.

_I, Killian Jones, do make Oath, that I will be faithful and bear true Allegiance to His Majesty King George the Fifth, His Heirs, and Successors, and that I will, as in duty bound, honestly and faithfully defend His Majesty, His Heirs, and Successors, in Person, Crown and Dignity, against all enemies, and will observe and obey all orders of His Majesty, His Heirs and Successors, and of the Generals and Officers set over me. So help me God._

So help me God.

The words are as clear in his mind as the first day he had said them, a sense of belonging and duty blanketing him in warmth as he had stood shoulder to shoulder with his comrades in arms and sworn to protect his King and Country. But today all he can think of is the almost overwhelming amount of work that awaits him even as his heart protests making any move toward going back to the front again.

The sound of marching breaks him out of his reverie. Footsteps like thunder pass underneath his first floor window as the new recruits make their route march through the streets. He stands up to watch them, following the column of men as they match one another step for step, their arms swinging, their knees rising, their feet falling in perfect time with one another.

They look like one large machine as opposed to a hundred separate men and that says something about the war he imagines, but his mind is too clouded to say what. He runs a hand through the rough stubble that has grown upon his chin and cheeks, his hand reaching back into his hair that had grown too long for not having been looked after.

Turning away from the window, he walks to the large mirror in his bedroom. The man in the mirror stares back at him, his face unkempt, his clothes even worse. His eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep, darkness lurking beneath and behind them. Prickly stubble covers part of his face, his hair falling onto his forehead. His hand is clenched into a fist at his side, his arm other hanging by his waist, forearm tapering away into nothing. The longer he looks, the harder it becomes to find the man that had stood in this same place not six years ago.

Freshly shaven and washed, his brother's hands upon his shoulders, holding his head high. His eyes had been a bright blue, hiding a soft sadness but nervous and excited for the future that awaited him.

He wonders now, how far he has buried that man. How far he has buried the hope and the light.

He wonders how he will look the next time he comes back.

(If he comes back.)

* * *

_London,England_

_Summer, 1909_

"You're ready, Killian."

"You really think so?"

Killian's voice is a breathy sigh of awe as he sees himself, his uniform crisp and warm from being freshly pressed, his cheeks smooth, his hair clipped short and swept softly away from his face. He feels different in it.

Taller somehow.

"Aye, little brother. You're going to make us proud."

Liam's voice is firm, confident. His hands on Killian's shoulders sure, his eyes meeting Killian's with pride twinkling in their bright depths. Killian cannot help but smile back, Liam's mood infectious as he allows himself to believe too. That he would do his brother proud, that he would wash away the last few months with this new adventure, that he would finally find himself again after being so terribly lost after-

Milah.

Her name still sounds like sigh in his ears, her voice echoing through the empty corners of his mind after he had lost her. The sleeve of his uniform hides her name inked onto the skin of his left wrist but he feels it burn through the deep blue fabric. It has only been a few months since Liam had come home on leave and found him outside their house, his eyes glazed over, a cut on his face, blood dripping from it as he leaned against the door, his head resting on his forearm. He had gotten into a fight at a bar, heard or misheard someone speak her name, heard them say something about her character, something about how she had _deserved_ to die of the terrible disease that took her. Killian had woken in his bed the next morning with a headache that pounded through his skull, unable to open his eyes from the painful effects of too much drink the night before.

Too much drink, too much anger, too much.

It has only been a few months since Killian had seen his brother look at him with soft, pitying eyes and suggest that perhaps he needs to get away from this city that rang with her reflections on every corner, that followed him around with whispers of scandal and lies, that made it hurt too much to pick up a brush again.

And Killian had listened. Even though he had refused this same offer a year ago when Liam had first proposed that Killian join him in the Navy, choosing instead to follow the path of his art, the look in Liam's eyes and the prospect of being able to escape this prison he had found himself in had been enough motivation to say yes.

Now he stands ready to go away on his very first posting, his brother behind him, his hands keeping Killian standing tall.

And a pride in his eyes that Killian wants to make sure never goes away.

"Alright then," Liam disappears from view for a minute to grab Killian's cap from the bed. He comes back to stand behind him and presses a hand to his shoulder to turn Killian around to face him.

He presses the cap onto Killian's head and suddenly Killian feels like he is standing taller still, his voice catching even as he tries to speak, his eyes welling up at the way his brother looks at him. Liam's eyes go up and down, scanning Killian's uniform before nodding decisively.

"You're ready brother," he says again, his hands brushing imaginary dust off of Killian's shoulders.

But for all the strength and steadiness his uniform gives him, when Liam's eyes meet his again, he feels like a boy. Like the child standing in a dimly lit hospital hallway having just lost his mother, like the teenager shouting at the door as his father left, like the young man sobbing into his arms because his love passed away before she could ever be his.

Like the little boy who had held his older brother's hand through it all.

He hugs him then, his arms going around Liam, his face burying itself in his shoulder as he leans on him one last time. Liam hugs him back, his hand clapping Killian on the back as he lets out a watery chuckle before pulling away, his hands on Killian's shoulders once more, a smile breaking across his face as he speaks.

"Write to me. Don't fall off the edge of the ship. You are going to make a bloody brilliant sailor."

Killian chuckles, smiling his own proud smile and nodding back.

He was certainly going to try.

* * *

_London, England_

_Winter, 1915_

He finds himself still staring at the empty space behind his shoulder, feeling the lack of the weight of hands on his shoulders, of the man who kept him standing when he could not stand for himself.

The Navy had been everything Killian had dreamed of. He had fallen in love with the ocean with his very first step on a ship.

(He always had been fast and reckless when it came to love.)

It had been hard work but, the salty spray in his face and the sun on his back had been all that he needed as he worked, always seeing his brother's face in his mind, always trying to make him proud.

But then the rumblings of war had begun. Patrolling had increased, a few skirmishes fought here and there and when they needed reinforcements, he had been sent to join his brother on _his_ ship, the HMS Jewel.

He closes his eyes, his fist clenching as he brings himself back. Deep breaths as he begins to plan, as he tries to bring order to his muddy mind.

Medical exam first, he thinks. Best get that out of the way before he got on with the rest of it. His injury would not be a problem they'd said. Since he wouldn't be required to fight or be allowed to for that matter but a medical exam was still something he-

His eyes shoot open as he turns around. Facing his bed now he finds his canvas and its half finished painting by the window. A basic charcoal sketch for now but bits and pieces of colour already filling scattered spaces upon the canvas. He'd brought it in here last evening, chasing the light of the sun around his house as it set, settling finally in his bedroom beside its west facing window.

The warm sunlight hits the painting now as he moves to stand before it, almost reflecting some of the colours on his face. A small breeze floating in through a crack in the window, ruffling his hair as he smiles softly despite himself.

Medical exam first.

* * *

He'd want to believe otherwise but he has been hoping.

Quietly, fiercely.

That he would be able to see her again.

The hospital sounds the same as it always has but things are louder today and and yet somehow softer, lit by the warmth of the sun. It is like a gentle caress amidst the prickly kiss of the wind and people have begun to revel in it. Their voices louder, their smiles just a little brighter for having seen the sun through their own endless winter.

"This way, Captain."

Anna, the receptionist, walks with him as she leads him to an examination room. She looks the same as she had done two weeks ago but in the bright afternoon light, in the absence of his searing pain, her voice is sweeter to him. Kinder in a way that makes him try to smile back at her, to apologise for how he had behaved last time. He doesn't know how real his smile appears because though she smiles back, he doesn't quite register if it reaches her eyes, his body too restless, humming with nervous energy. In anticipation, in dread, he is not quite sure.

She is quick and steady as she measures his height and weight, the sounds from outside dimming as the door closes behind Anna when she leaves, asking him to wait. He barely notices doctor's name on the door-Victor something or other- as he walks in, his eyes scanning for soft, curling blonde hair escaping from a cap, for green eyes that he hopes will smile at him again.

But, the room is empty save for the table in the corner of the room, the cupboard, the chairs. It's layed out the same way as the room from last time. Perhaps a little bigger. The wallpaper is green he notices idly, his foot tapping against the floor as he leans against the table in the corner of the room. The sunlight from the window is much brighter in this room than the other, the pattern of the wallpaper almost glowing a golden yellow as the light hits it. The cupboard with the strange bottles is lit as well, the labels on them staring out at him, looking somehow far more sinister than the ones that Emma had been handling.

_Emma_

Her name sounds like his heart sighing softly in joy.

His eyes continue to dart about the room as he notices the smallest things. Looking for her first in the silhouettes of the people passing outside the door and then later in the way the bottles and cotton and gauze had been arranged in the little tray by the table, straight and neat. He looks for her in the coat that hangs by the door, grey wool and black buttons with a few mismatched ones mixed in, bits of stitching showing him where it had been mended. A well worn, well loved thing. He tries to remember if there had been a coat hanging by the door last time but his memory of her is overcome by the green of her eyes, the gold of her hair. The rest of the world dimming and blurring around her.

He knows- he _knows_ that what he is doing is a little foolish. Indulging in this hopeless, wanting need to be near this woman he has seen for but a few fractions of an hour but still he lets himself search for her. Lets his mind be consumed by the colours of her, by the small flash of the smile in her voice, by the shadow of her touch on his shoulder.

He chases the comfort of her voice even as he had rejected it when he had first heard it.

It keeps him from closing his eyes and only hearing screaming explosions, from seeing wide eyes and crimson stains.

"Anna, please."

The door creaks open, just a little. He sees the edge of a blue dress peek through as the person takes one step inside, still speaking to Anna outside.

"We can discuss this later. Victor has a patient and I have to-"

His heart sighs softly again.

"Alright Anna."

A pause as Anna's voice comes through indistinctly when she replies. He stands straighter, hand unclenching at his side, smiles blossoming on his face.

"I will. I promise."

Another pause as Anna responds, the white of her apron visible now as the door opens wider, the back of her cap hanging down her back as she faces away, speaking to Anna still.

"I _know_. I'll see you later, okay?."

He hears that smile in her voice again and then, he sees her.

The door is directly opposite from the window and it seems almost comical to him how the universe always has her meet him in a way that makes him want to paint. Sunlight falling gracefully across her apron, a slice cut into it, a gentle arc of gold against the white. Curls of hair escaping her cap already, falling onto her forehead as she looks at the clipboard in her hand. She looks more put together than the last two times that he's seen her, the lines around her crisp and sharp, as if she is _too_ real for the world.

She hasn't looked up at him yet, walking towards him, her eyes fixed on the sheets in her hand as she flips through them. Looking for his name perhaps, the papers he had handed Anna when he'd come in. Her eyes scan each paper several times as if she is seeing but not understanding. She seems a little preoccupied but he stays quiet, lost in the crinkles on her brow as she looks at the papers in concentration.

He cannot stop the smile on his face from growing wider as she addresses him.

"The doctor will be with you in a moment. I am just going to collect your vital signs and-"

She pauses, having finally found the sheet she was looking for.

And she finally meets his eyes.

"Captain Jones?"

"Did you miss me?"

He may have imagined it but he swears that she smiles at the sound of his voice before ducking her head back down to her clipboard.

"Take a seat, Captain."

He moves to sit on a chair by the examination table while she gets his papers in order, shuffling through and arranging the various forms the doctor would need to fill in as his exam would be performed.

He watches her as she does this, her fingers pulling, pushing, stacking sheets of paper on a desk, her eyes fixed on them as she tries to finish as fast as she can. Finally she stands to face him once more, walking until she is standing in front of the chair upon which he sits, clipboard in her hand again as she reads the letter that he had handed in at the reception, the one requesting his clean bill of health to proceed with his new posting.

"An artist?"

Her voice is surprised. The word released upon a soft breath, coloured with something he cannot place, something that makes his lips curve up into a smile, something that makes his heart feel lighter somehow.

It is not much but it is enough to have him stand. He sways gently into her space and reaches his hand out towards her, his fingers unfurling, stained with the remnants of the paint he had used that morning.

"It is all I know to do."

Though but a small curve of her lips, he does not have to imagine her smile this time.

* * *

His fingertips are stained a bright yellow and she wonders how she hadn't noticed before.

In the dark of the pub, in the midst of the exhaustion that had plagued her at their first meeting, she hadn't noticed that he was drowning in colour.

It is faded and a little patchy, melting into other shades in various smudges along his hand, some even going down to his wrist. There is a little bit of green by his eyebrow, a smudge of blue on his jaw by his chin, and she can almost see him. Brush held loosely between his fingers as he absently pushes his hair away from his forehead with the back of his hand, little splatters of colour getting on his clothes and face when he gets a little too excited with the flourishes of his brush.

And the same smile on his face that he wears now.

She finds herself smiling back at him.

She hadn't been expecting him when she'd come in, when she'd been told that she was to help prepare a patient for his medical exam for return to the field. She'd been expecting a man nicked by shrapnel, his body healed and his spirit only slightly dented. She'd been expecting a young man whose injuries had only spurred him to crash headlong back into battle to prove himself. She had been expecting someone forced to go back because they still had themselves intact enough to be of service.

She hadn't expected him with his missing hand and his sad eyes that seemed to mirror the loss of her own, that seemed to speak in the same language as hers did. Someone who had already lost too much, who had been sent away because he had had nothing left to give.

(Though it seems he has something left after all.)

And as he sits there with his hand open toward her, his smile lit by the sun and yet somehow brighter, he looks so very young. Beautiful somehow as he tells her that his art is all he knows to do.

She wants to hold on to that hand and keep him from going out there again, keep him from coming back to her one day with that smile entirely gone and the light in his eyes completely dimmed. She wants to hold on to the pieces of him that have somehow survived this nightmare.

She opens her mouth to say something, her eyes drifting from his hand to his face but the words catch in her throat. He raises his eyebrow and nods at her, as if encouraging her to speak, his hand falling back to his side.

"I-"

She clears her throat and turns away from him lest she say more than she wants to or more than she is willing to. Her eyes drift back to his papers, his height and weight already entered into the sheet in Anna's neat handwriting before putting them away. She begins to collect the equipment she and the doctor would need from the cupboard. Stethoscope, reflex hammer, the box with the sphygmomanometer.

"Why are they sending an artist to the front?" she asks.

There is no way a man would choose to go back, _surely_. Her voice comes out clear, steady and she is glad of it.

"To record the goings on, to paint the glories and victories of our boys."

"To encourage more to join their ranks," she finishes his sentence as she comes to stand beside him, placing the reflex hammer on the table next to him.

"Aye."

She is facing away from him, arranging the equipment on the tray when he leans closer, bending his head to meet her eyes.

"Where did you serve, love?"

She looks up quickly, meeting his eyes with her wide ones, taken aback by his sudden question. She answers immediately with her own question, forgetting even, to admonish him for calling her _love_ again.

"How did you-"

"You have that look in your eyes. The one we all seem to bring back from France."

He smiles that crooked smile again. Part sad, part bitter and part something else entirely. Something dangerous. Like camaraderie. Like understanding.

"Yes, well," she looks away again, her eyes staring fixedly at her equipment tray, her hands straightening and rearranging things as she responds.

"Casualty Clearing Station," she says. Her voice half hidden behind the sounds of metal as she moves the stethoscope around for the third time before moving away to start working on getting the blood pressure machine ready, needing for this to end as soon as possible. Her heart beating faster every time he said something that saw through her.

Every time that she let him.

"Then you know. We all need something to hold on to when we're out there and my art was mine. I draw and scribble sketches on any piece of paper I could find on that ship. It kept me sane."

His voice lowers a little, apprehension colouring it as he asks his next question.

"What do you hold on to?"

She doesn't answer. Her hands working instead to unpack the blood pressure machine, attaching the cuff to the sphygmomanometer. She begins to deflect, to say something to bring this conversation back to solid ground but before she can speak-

"I understand that you're afraid to talk- to reveal yourself. But perhaps you will find that an understanding ear will help lighten the weight you carry on your shoulders. If only just a little. I know it would help _me_ to listen to someone speak. Besides-"

His voice is firm, soft and coaxing. But most of all it is sincere. She likes to believe that she can always spot a lie but right now, her heart tells her that he's telling the truth. He hasn't spoken of their encounter at The Warren House, recognising the value of that hour spent in silent companionship.

It is that fact and the way his voice falls away into defeat as he speaks again.

"Besides, I will have nobody to tell and we don't know if I am coming back at all."

Her heart feels a sudden ache, as if the loss of this man would hurt more that it should for someone she has only known a few days.

She answers him.

"My son."

She straightens from her spot by the desk, moving the machine to the tray beside the examination table, working brusquely.

"Would you please?"

She gestures towards the examination table, directing him to take a seat. He doesn't say anything, his eyes a little wide as he follows her instruction. His eyes search hers as she takes his hand, beginning to fix the cuff on his upper arm.

She is tightening the cuff when he finally speaks again.

"Your son? You're- married?"

Her eyes move from the cuff to his and she watches as he visibly retreats, his eyes less open, his body stiffer.

"I apologise Mrs Swan. I didn't realise- If I've been too forward-"

He stumbles on his words and she almost laughs. But instead, she sighs, rolling her eyes as she answers, "I was the one who asked you to call me _Miss_ Swan, remember?"

She looks away, finishing setting up the cuff, one last pull to make sure it was secure.

"My husband isn't with us anymore. He died in the war."

The lie rolls off her tongue much more easily than any of the truths she's shared with him. After all, she has had much more practise with it.

He doesn't seem to catch her fib. His eyes softening as he looks at her and she braces herself for the inevitable platitudes.

_I'm sorry._

_He was a hero._

_He gave the ultimate sacrifice._

But he says none of these things.

"The war has taken so much from us all."

He says this with the same defeat in his voice as he had when he'd told her that he may not return from this. He says this like he _understands_.

_Who did you lose?_

The question waits at the tip of her tongue but she swallows it, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks as she realises that he has truly lived through the loss that she is only pretending to feel. She clears her throat instead, reaching for the stethoscope.

"I'm going to measure your blood pressure now, Captain."

He nods once and stays silent as she lifts his arm up, her hand under his elbow supporting it. Pressing the stethoscope to the crook of his elbow, she begins to inflate the cuff. She feels his eyes on her, searching her face for something even as her head is bowed over his arm. His presence is a warmth at her side that seems to put the sun outside to shame.

The room is quiet save for the sound of their breathing and the rhythmic hissing of the cuff inflating. She focusses on the sounds through her stethoscope, listening carefully for the tapping sound that signals her first measurement as she begins to now slowly deflate the cuff, her fingers loosening around the bulb. She quickly notes it down and waits for the sound to stop, allowing herself to settle back into the rhythm of something she knows and knows well, taking his second measurement when the tapping sound disappears.

She takes the ear tips of the stethoscope out of her ears, hands already reaching to unfasten the cuff from his arm.

"How old is your boy?"

His voice startles her a little even as he speaks slow and tentative, her heart already wanting to retreat but her mouth does not seem to want to listen as she answers him anyway.

"He's just turned thirteen," she says, not looking at him as she packs away the machine, turning away to place it back into the cupboard.

She is almost speaking to herself as she continues, "And already he wants to enlist."

When she turns back around to face Captain Jones, he seems frozen.

"He is far too young, _surely-_ to be thinking of such things."

His voice is incredulous edged with something that sounds almost desperate. As if he wants to protect her Henry without ever laying eyes on him. She comes back to him, taking his arm again with a raised brow to ask his permission, answering him as she pushes his sleeve up his arm a little so her fingers can find skin. She ignores how her own pulse seems to quicken even as she prepares to measure his.

"He is. Far too young but the world tells him that he must be a hero, that he must sacrifice for his country to be a man. What else is a young boy to think?"

"Still. I cannot imagine what-"

"I need to measure your pulse now, Captain. If you could-"

She cuts him off even as his voice had begun to fall dangerously close to the way that Anna had spoken to her just before she had come in here, as she begins to feel afraid of revealing too much once more.

Her fingers are warm on his wrist, his heartbeat pulsing against them as she counts. He is quiet through it all. She scratches another number onto his form, dropping his hand quickly and moving away.

His voice fills her ears as soon as his heartbeat leaves her fingers.

"I could speak to him, if you would allow it?"

"Sorry?

He raises his injured arm a bit and repeats.

"I could speak to him? Perhaps show him that war is not just medals and glory?"

His sentences all end in questions as he tries to find the length and depth of her boundaries, testing to see if he could offer his help in this way and god but she is so tempted to say yes. To allow this man who seems to hold the same burning in his eyes as she does, to perhaps take away a part of the weight that lives like a stone in her belly.

But she remembers what Anna had said just as she had left her in the examination room, her words ringing through her, her heart simmering in defiance.

_"You could do far worse than Lieutenant Walsh, Emma. Promise me you'll think about it at least? Trust me, having a partner makes dealing with all this just a little bit easier."_

And she cannot accept.

She can do this alone. She _will_ do this alone. Just as she has done everything else in her life. She repeats this to herself even as she watches his face fall when she softly refuses his offer.

"That is all, Captain. Doctor Whale will finishing the rest of your exam."

"Thank you Miss Swan."

Her eyes are caught on his as she asks the next question, standing entirely too close as he gets off the exam table.

"When do you leave?"

His voice falls to match the distance between them.

"As early as next week."

The door opens behind her, Victor's voice filtering through as he walks in and she all but jumps away from Captain Jones.

"Sorry I'm late, just had a little bit of an argument with a stubborn fellow who refused to take his medicine on my rounds."

Victor doesn't seem to notice anything out if the ordinary as he walks past her to shake Captain Jones' hand.

Their voices seem to muffle under the sound of her heart pounding against her ribs as does her own as she says something about Elsa needing her. Victor nods his assent as she begins to leave, feeling Captain Jones' eyes on her every step of the way.

"Goodbye Captain. And good luck."

The door closes behind her.

And though she doesn't think herself a religious person, she finds herself sending a silent prayer out into the world, hoping that he comes back home safely.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're about 2 chapters from the end of Act 1 which is pretty exciting! Anyway,
> 
> Notes, historical or otherwise:
> 
> In this chapter,
> 
> The process of bring trained to become a soldier was a well oiled machine which often had to be rushed through because of the sheer number of soldiers required for a war of this scale. The steps included the ones Killian mentions such as the medical exams and the oath-taking.
> 
> A Sphygmomanometer is a blood pressure machine yes I only recently learned the word and yes, I googled it every time I had to type it the first few times. I have finally learned how to spell and pronounce it and I feel fairly accomplished :D
> 
> Now, I couldn't find any accurate information on how exactly recruitment went about for the War Artist's Scheme so that part is extrapolated from what I do already know.
> 
> That's all for now and well, things are progressing on the CS front and I for one am very excited to show you what happens next! :D
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and please, please do let me know what you think 3


	8. Indigo

_London, England_

_Winter, 1915_

"And then the General clapped me on the back and said, _Good work lad!_ Promoted me right there on the field. Just like that! Would you believe it?"

_No, I wouldn't._

The words lie so close to spilling out of her lips, her agitation just waiting to bubble over into speech but she restrains herself, forcing out a short smile and a nod like she's been doing the entire trip into the city.

Lieutenant Walsh Smith was some sort of distant cousin of an acquaintance of her father's who she had met during her first summer at her new home. Her mother had thrown a charity gala for the orphanage and Walsh and his family had attended.

She had kissed him that afternoon, a quick press of lips behind a tree because she'd liked his smile.

But the young boy she had met that afternoon had turned into the kind of man who believed that his company was always welcome, that his voice and his opinion were always desired on all matters, that he was the envy of all.

It has been a while since she has seen him and though Anna believes that he is interested in her, that he is a good man- or perhaps just good enough of a man- to be her companion, Emma could not wait to be away from him.

Especially after this afternoon.

He had arrived uninvited, unannounced just as she had been about to sit down with her parents for their afternoon tea- her breakfast for she was to report for a night shift at the hospital- and they had been forced by the bonds of politesse to invite him to join them.

She had grit her teeth and gone through with it.

The only saving grace of the fairly disastrous hour that followed had been the twitch of her father's lips into barely there, courteous smiles even as his grip on his dainty blue china cup grew white knuckled, her mother's sudden interest in cucumber sandwiches every time the lieutenant launched into another anecdote where he was the star.

The stories were all for her benefit, she had realised quickly. His eyes kept flashing to her, as he asked her questions, only to interrupt her slightly curt answers with more stories of his own, happy to spend long minutes talking about himself and eventually, she had been reduced to this. Tight smiles and occasional nods.

It seemed to be enough to keep him talking, much to her parents' annoyance.

Watching them be as irritated as she was and yet force themselves to be egregiously polite had given her a small measure of comfort and pleasure, amusement colouring her eyes even as she kept her face carefully neutral.

But then, just as she had begun to excuse herself to go to work, glad to finally have a respectable excuse to be rid of him, he had begun to insist on travelling to the city with her. Ignoring her protests, - which were as firm as polite society would allow her to be without raising her voice- he had stood up and bid her parents farewell, walking out to fetch his coat.

Her mother's apologetic shrug had been the last thing that Emma had seen before she'd resigned herself to a terrible beginning to her already strange day.

Her journey to the hospital was one of her favourite parts of her day, a time to be still and silent and allow the train to carry her along, allow the sounds of the rushing river and the rustling trees to fill her ears instead of the screams and whimpers that normally predominated her days.

But today it had been filled with the sound of his voice as he had talked about himself, his recent promotion in the army, his deeds at the front, incessantly.

Just as he speaks now.

Her footsteps are quick as as she tries to end this conversation-if one could even call this a conversation- as they walk by a small pond in a park, his voice towering over the sounds of the ducks, of the children that play nearby.

Biting back a grimace, her brows knit into a frown as he tells her what a wonderful job the women were doing back home.

"A man appreciates coming home to a pretty smile and a soft kiss after all the hard work he has to do."

He nudges her softly as though sharing a private joke, his lips curled into a grin and she realises that she has had enough. Her body turning to face him, her fist clenched at her side, her mouth opens to finally give him a piece of her mind, civility be damned.

But before she can pull her thoughts together enough to wipe that grin off his face, she notices him.

Captain Jones, sitting on a bench that they have been walking toward for some time, his head bent over a notebook, his hook holding it steady in his lap as he sketches, his eyes moving periodically between the tree in front of him and the paper below.

A faint smile lights his face, as if he isn't consciously trying but his body is doing it for him any way. His shoulders are loose as he rests against the back of the bench, his posture relaxed.

She's surprised at first, an odd feeling settling over her as she realises that this is the first time she has seen him like this. Lost in his work this way. Free.

Her mind begins to remind her again that she has but met this man thrice, that it is a trick of her heart that she feels as if she has known him a lifetime.

"Emma? Are you even listening to me?"

Her eyes linger on Captain Jones for a moment even as Walsh interrupts her thoughts. She sees the Captain's head whip towards them almost comically as he hears Walsh speak her name, his eyes looking for the source of the voice before finally settling on her.

She tries to staunch the sudden warmth that fills her chest at the small smile that grows on his face as soon as he realises that she's noticed him too.

She cannot help but smile back, her fingers suddenly itching to raise her hand and greet him from afar but Walsh asks again, "Emma?"

She looks at him quickly, seeing the frown on his face and responds, "No, of course I am. Do go on."

He doesn't seem convinced by her tight lipped smile but continues all the same, his words all jumbling together in her ears as she all but tunes him out. Her eyes drift back to Captain Jones, whose smile has melted into a questioning frown as he scans the man who walks with her. She wills for him to look her way again, their steps taking them closer and closer to walking by the bench where he sits.

He does.

It takes little more than a raise of her eyebrows and a little shrug in Walsh's direction for Captain Jones' eyes to light up, his lips to curve into mischief as he stands.

"Miss Swan! Could I have a moment please?"

Her eyes stay on his even as they grow wide at his sudden approach. She bites back a chuckle as she realises what he's doing.

"Captain Jones, of course."

She turns and stops right by the bench where he stands, his hand tucked into his coat pocket, his other arm at his side, the silly grin from before still on his face. Walsh bristles at her side, his spine straightening as he hears Captain Jones' rank, his eyes scanning the man in front of them.

All it does is make smile just a little bit wider.

"I had come to see you about my injury," he holds his arm up and Emma watches as Walsh's eyes follow the movement, his posture relaxing just a little as he notices it, "But the reception told me that you were unavailable."

It's all a lie, of course. But she does love a good ruse, remnants from her youth spent on Boston streets, and the slow, smug smile growing on Walsh's face as he watches the Captain, clearly no longer considering him a threat, only fuels the fire inside her.

"My apologies, I should have told you last week that I was working the night shift today. I'd be happy to see you now."

She is sure to soften her voice, to make sure that Walsh sees the true warmth of her smile as she speaks to Captain Jones.

And he seems to notice too for he does one of his silly bows again.

"Thank you, Miss Swan."

"Any time, Captain."

Walsh clears his throat pointedly, standing straight once more, his hands clasped behind his back as he puffs his chest just a little, his medals glinting in the slowly receding sunlight.

"Oh! I'm sorry, this is Lieutenant Walsh. Lieutenant, meet Captain Killian Jones."

The handshake is brisk and awkward, as the men barely touch before dropping their hands as though they had accidentally touched a flame.

"Nice to meet you, sir."

Walsh's voice sounds like a sneer as he speaks, deliberate in his omission of Captain Jones' rank and Emma's irritation only grows, her fists clenching at her side again as she looks up at him.

"I believe the Captain here is quite capable of walking me the rest of the way to the hospital. Besides, I am sure you have much work to do Lieutenant, with your new promotion and all."

Walsh seems to shrink immediately even as Killian's smile only grows beside her, as he bites his lip to contain laughter.

"Of course, Miss Swan," he bends his head just a little, his body stiff, his voice strained before he turns to face Killian.

"Captain."

The words are gritted out between his teeth even as Killian's answering _Lieutenant_ is spoken through a smile.

She watches him walk away, a warm satisfaction flooding her chest before she turns to face the man beside her once more. She finds him looking at her, a silly grin on his face as he sways just a little closer into her space and she can't help but return it, finding herself swaying slightly too. The rush of having taken down Walsh a peg or two making her cheeks flush and the smile grow bigger on her face.

"That was nicely done, Miss Swan. I'd even wager to say that we make quite the team."

Her smile melts into a laugh, a small chuckle escaping her.

But then, it fades.

Only the softest of smiles remaining on their faces as she realises that they are standing far too close. Only the quiet chirping of a bird filling the silence between them as she realises that she is holding her breath, that he is too. His warmth filling the air beside her, as she realises that she can see the little specks of green in the blue of his eyes, suddenly not knowing what to do after their small moment of camaraderie had passed.

She breaks the silence first, clearing her throat and looking away. Her eyes find his supplies strewn upon the bench, left behind in his haste to stand up and help her.

"Thank you, Captain though I am sorry to have disturbed you."

He follows her gaze to his notebook sitting upside down upon his satchel and his small piece of charcoal resting against its edge, a box of pencils sitting open on the other side of where he had been sitting.

"Of course not! I cannot bear to see a lady in distress."

He reaches for his things, deftly placing the notebook and his pencils in his bag, his other arm holding it open.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" she says, her hand now fidgeting with the strap of her own bag, her other hand buried deep in her coat pocket.

He speaks over the clicking sound of the clasp of his bag closing.

"I will be honoured if you would let me walk you to the hospital after all."

He turns around to face her just as he finishes his request, hanging his bag on his shoulder as he smiles. A little tentative now, a little hopeful.

Her mind races in time with her heart as she considers his request, her mouth opening to speak even as she knows not what she will say. But he must sense her apprehension- having just witnessed her trying to get rid of another man who had tried to walk with her- and speaks before she can.

"I promise not to talk at all."

His smile grows as he says this, the mischief from earlier sneaking back into the twinkle of his eyes.

She finds herself smiling back, answering the question in his eyes, the sincerity in his smile.

"Well, in that case, how can I refuse?"

* * *

It is a few days before she sees him again.

On a beautiful morning after the first snow of the year, she walks down her usual way to the hospital, cutting across the park, listening to the swish of her shoes as they press through the ice. It has been a few weeks now that Henry has gone to school each morning and actually arrived there, it has been a few days since they have had to receive a convoy from the front and for the first time in a while, Emma finds her mind wandering, her eyes wandering too.

She takes in the relative quiet of the park this early in the morning, the clean white sheet of snow that lies over everything, birds chirping softly as though just waking up from sleep themselves.

But the peace in her heart is short lived for she hears the rhythmic marching of the new recruits doing their routes across the park. A voice loud and steady, occasionally providing direction breaks the steady thump of the soldiers' boots on the new snow, leaving a wide swathe of darkness marring the clean sheet that covered the ground around them.

The uneasy edges of fear that pull at her belly each time she sees them pay visit to her once more, her hand clutching at the strap of her bag a little tighter as she takes a circuitous route, turning away from the sound of more young boys ready to go away to fight.

More boys that remind her more and more of her son each day.

_"Good things still happen, Emma. You've just got to look for the moments."_

Her father's voice is a soft memory, a gentle hug and a linked arms as he'd walked with her between his beloved roses after he'd found her crying in the garden, just one night too many spent in the operating room at the hospital.

She takes a deep breath, her heart steadying as the marching fades away as she comes back to herself. Her eyes begin to wander once more but as has been the norm since her walk through here with Walsh, she finds herself searching for _him._

She would not admit it but has been looking for him each time she makes her way to the hospital for her shifts, her eyes scanning the bench first and then the rest of the park. Her mind searching for his mop of dark hair, for his sparkling blue eyes even as her heart refuses to believe it.

And as though she has summoned him with her thoughts, there he is. Her belly does a little flip even as she tries to ignore it, her spine suddenly straighter, her shoulders rising as she watches him.

He sits on the same bench as the other day, his coat a deep, rich blue today, the dark of his hair melting into it, the colour subtle but somehow standing out against the swathes of white that surround him. His hands are still covered in soot from the charcoal he sketches with, his gaze fixed intently on the same tree. He doesn't seem to notice her though so she lets herself watch him work.

Without Walsh at her side demanding her attention, without anyone else watching _her_ , she lets herself study the curve of his spine as he bends over his notebook, the way his tongue sometimes sticks out in concentration. All while unconsciously making her way toward him, her body leading her to him even as her heart keeps protesting in vain _._

"I didn't realise that this tree was fascinating enough to sketch this many times, Captain."

He startles at her voice, jumping slightly in his seat. But more than that, she startles herself, with the playfulness in her words, with the ease with which she speaks to him.

He looks up at her, his eyes quickly shifting from surprise to pleasure when he realises it's her, a smile curving his lips already.

"Miss Swan!"

He stands to face her properly, placing his notebook on the bench behind him.

"Good morning to you too."

She feels a flush rising in her cheeks at being caught out, his teasing tone not helping the sudden pounding of her heart. Whatever feeling that had led her here to him, quickly fading into uncertainty, her hand reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear even as he continues smiling at her.

"Good morning Captain. I was just wondering since you were sketching the same-"

She gestures at the tall tree, its branches spreading wide and tangled across the sky above them, its leaves coated in a soft dusting of snow.

He just about bounces in place as he registers her question, his hand extending to take her gloved one and suddenly stopping as he realises the movement he had started in his excitement. He doesn't pull it back but only raises his eyes to meet hers, his eyebrows rising in question, in permission.

She cocks her head to the side for a moment, her heart both asking her to pull away and asking her to reach out, trust in the honesty in his eyes, in the joy in his smile.

She nods her assent. His fingers close around hers in the softest of grips, easily allowing her to pull away should she want to, the warmth of them burning through the wool of her gloves. He pulls gently on her hand and she moves until she is standing beside him, facing the tree directly as well, his hand dropping from hers as soon as she is in place, her fingers feeling the loss immediately.

"Do you see her, Miss Swan?"

"Who?"

Her eyes scan the green of the tree looking for something that stands out.

"The Starling," he points a little to the left of where her gaze is.

"She's a stunning thing and has her nest here. I've been trying to sketch her for a while now but she seems to enjoy making me chase her, running away just as I try to draw the curve of her eye."

She smiles despite herself, her eyes still looking for Captain Jones' mysterious bird for even though it was only last week that she had heard that men were now dying of poisoned gas on the front, their skin burning away in agony, though her days are spent hearing and seeing the evidence of all the horrible ways that man could hurt man, here was Captain Jones, a man broken by war himself watching a tree at the crack of dawn, his voice filled with awe and wonder at something beautiful.

She gasps as she spots it. Its blue-green plumage peeking out through the leaves for just a moment before it disappears again only to pop out once more, perch itself on a branch in full view.

White tipped feathers that change from shades of blues to greens to purples shift in the morning light, making them look almost iridescent. It is a small bird but somehow it looks proud, standing tall and alone on its little branch on the big tree.

She finds him looking at her when she faces him again, his lips curving into a smile once more.

"She's gorgeous, isn't she? Some people don't like them. Too prickly. But I am quite smitten with this one."

He turns away from her, his smile softening as he follows the bird slowly walking along the branch before it hides away in the tree once more.

"Just a little something to remind me of home when I'm gone."

"Oh, I-"

_I'd almost forgotten._

The words die before they can leave her lips, her heart slowly beginning to sink to her stomach, pulling all her walls up as it goes. He was going to go to war soon, how could she let herself forget?

(How could she let herself forget that he may not return?)

And all at once it comes back. The crashing reality of their lives, the anguish that lies in wait behind the doors of her hospital, the danger that awaits him at the front and it is as though someone has blown out the candle that lights her world.

She clears her throat then, her spine straightening with the action, her body moving just a little further from him as she turns to face him, her back to the tree.

"I thought that you were to leave this week?

"I was. But I've been told that it would be a month yet before I am to _go into the fray_ , as it were."

His brows scrunch into a frown as he follows her movement, his voice fading as he speaks, his words becoming more absent minded as his attention shifts. Head cocking to the side as he watches her smile drop from her face.

"That's good, yes? You will be home for Christmas."

She speaks brusquely now, her eyes avoiding his as she adjusts her bag on her shoulder.

"I suppose so," he says distracted, his head bowing, trying to catch her eyes as he continues, "Miss Swan, is everything alright?"

She looks up at him then, her smile tight and her eyes falsely bright.

"Yes, quite alright. I'm sorry, I must be going. It was nice seeing you Captain."

His frown only deepens, his voice slow and tentative as he answers her with a question.

"Of course. Would you allow me to walk with you?"

She almost says yes. She almost says yes to the question knitted into his brows, to the soft reassurance of his smile, to the tiny hope glimmering in his eyes.

She almost says yes.

_A month yet before I am to go into the fray-_

"That's alright, Captain. I'm sure you'd want to get back to your work."

"It's no-"

He beings to protest, his eyes searching hers but he must see the stiffness in her stance, the silent urge to run waiting behind her eyes.

"Of course, Miss Swan. It was nice seeing you as well."

"Goodbye Captain."

She doesn't look back until she has stepped out of the gates of the park, giving in for just a moment.

He is but a small splash of blue in the distance but she finds herself smiling softly as she follows the line of his body.

Sitting on a bench and gazing up at a tree.

* * *

Her footsteps are angry and quick, sharp crunches of her shoes upon the old snow that covers the path to the park. The wind seems to reflect her mood, wild as it blows through the trees, whipping her hair back behind her. She pulls her coat tighter about her frame as though hoping that it would silence the screams, the whimpers and whispers of pain that echoed through her, her mind swimming with the faces of the men they had lost today.

The sound of soldiers doing their morning route through the park fades into existence, their steps as solid, as strong as ever, audible even over the screaming wind, unknowing of how the hospital had all but buried a group of their comrades last night.

A convoy had come through on her shift the night before. Though it was far from her first, it didn't seem to matter. For no matter how many times she had seen it, the sight of the truth of the war always took her breath away.

It had been as fast and as frantic as always, men flowing through the rooms, their bodies hastily patched up, healed just enough to make it here, hands clutching at themselves where it hurt.

It had been just like always but after a week of no convoys, after a week of mostly silence in the operation wards, it had almost knocked her off her feet, her mind having dimmed the true extent of the hurt, of the way simple metal and gas could hurt man.

Her shift had ended with an amputation and a facial burn, the soldier so broken that he could not scream when they cut off the end of his leg. He lived yet, but she wondered how many more faces she would see that had not yet grown a hair upon their cheeks but had lost more than anyone ever deserved to, how many voices she would hear go shrill in pain for they had not yet grown into the strength of it, how many boys she would see lost, fractured and silenced in the service of this war.

How many would she see before it ends?

How many would she see before her own son became one of them.

Her eyes squeeze shut as she takes a shuddering breath, the cold air biting at her throat, the steady thump of marching fading into a low murmur as the men move out of the park. But the sound is quickly replaced by another set of footsteps, frantic and sharp as they approach her.

Her eyebrows furrow as she opens her eyes, almost missing her name being shouted over the sound of the wind rushing by in her ears.

"Miss Swan!"

She whips around to face the sound, her eyes burning with the force of the cold air that buffetts her face now.

(Or perhaps with the tears that wait behind her lashes, holding back until she is in the privacy of her rooms before allowing themselves to fall.)

His steps slow once he sees that she has stopped, his eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he comes closer, his eyes scanning her quickly, his hand squeezing tighter over the strap of his satchel. His other arm is tucked into his pocket and it hits her all over again.

How many days before she sees _him_ on a stretcher?

"Captain Jones, I-"

Her voice wavers as she speaks and she stops immediately, blinky rapidly and clearing her throat, pulling the pieces of herself that she had let slip as she had left the hospital, back together.

He is standing in front of her now, his breath coming out in little shallow pants that crystallise in the cold air between them, as he recovers from his brief jog after her, his mouth opening to speak, his eyes flooding with concern, softening as he looks at her.

"Miss Swan, is everything alright?"

Another sharp breath from her, her own little puff of breath forming before her.

"It's been a difficult night, Captain. I apologise but I must-"

His shoulders fall and his hand rises immediately in a placating gesture as he interrupts her.

"No, of course. I watched the convoy leave a little while ago," he says, turning slightly to face the road before facing her once more, "It must have been-"

His voice trails away, his words gone much like hers have. For which words could explain, which words could soothe their hearts in the face of this?

But his eyes linger upon hers, the blue depths of them trying anyway.

She clears her throat again, her voice a little steadier this time.

"Yes, well. I'm sure you know-" she turns away, her eyes finding his boots instead of his eyes as she loses her words too.

She begins to excuse herself, "It was nice seeing you, Captain but I must-" but looks back up when he speaks.

"Just one moment, Miss Swan, I have something-"

She hears him rummaging through his satchel, his hand inside it, his arm hooked around the strap of the bag, holding it open. He's looking into the depths of it, his tongue pressing into the side of his cheek as he tries to feel out what he's looking for.

She knows that he's found it for his eyes brighten the moment that he does.

(She feels the smallest smile curve her lips then.)

He turns to face her once more, a piece of paper folded into quarters held between his fingers, his hand raised toward her as he offers it to her.

She takes it from him, her brows raised in confusion even as she unfolds it at his silent nod of encouragement, the brightness of his eyes spreading down to his smile.

The paper is torn from his notebook, the edges a little jagged from where he had removed it, the thick paper creased at the edges where he had accidentally folded it down as he'd worked.

And all across the page are sketches of the Starling. Settled on a branch, it's mouth open in song, just about to take flight, its wings only half open, its head tucked into its wing, its wings fully spread. All over the page, there she is, the colours of her filled in meticulously, the blue purples of her plumage almost iridescent as she tilts the paper back and forth.

The birds upon the page look like they are about to fly out into the world, as vivid, as real as the snow that has just begun to fall, flakes of it landing on the paper.

"Beautiful things still exist, Miss Swan."

His voice is soft and closer than before. Her eyes meet his as an errant tear finally escapes her burning eyes, her fingers ghost softly across the paper.

"Thank you, Captain."

* * *

She manages to crease the little sheet of paper into softness in a matter of days, the sketches of the Starling living in the pocket of her coat, hidden away to look at when her breath wants to rip out of her chest, when her heart feels like it may fall away. Hidden away in the pocket of her apron to reach into and feel the edges of when she takes her rounds, fixing sheets and changing bandages with a smile on her face and reassurance on her lips.

It becomes a comfort, a reminder.

That there will be an end to this some day, that the starling would still live to sing when it does.

It becomes a comfort almost as much as he does.

She sees him fairly often around the park, sketching a tree one day, the ducks in the pond on another. She finds him sometimes on the way into the hospital and they walk together, their conversation pleasant as she asks about his art and he answers, his voice carrying her away from the hurt, the helpless anger that awaits her at the hospital.

It scares her sometimes when she laughs a little too freely at something silly he says, when warmth floods her chest and cheeks as he compliments her but instantly, her heart skips a beat and stops her short, calling for her to retreat.

Sometimes, he asks her about how _she_ is doing and she can only answer in broken sentences and almost smiles.

But somehow, it is enough all the same.

She stands in front of him now, his equipment strewn about the bench behind him as he starts collecting it all, his mouth curving into a happy smile as soon as he sees her. She answers his smile with a soft one of her own, turning around to face his subject. Children chasing each other on a small patch of green, their laughter ringing clear in the cold air and her heart swells. She turns back to face him and he is just maneuvering his sketchbook into his bag, his drawings of the children still visible over the lip of the satchel.

Her smile quickly twists into concern though as he takes longer than usual, as she notices that he is favouring his hand more. His jaw is clenched, his injured arm tucked by his bag, wincing anytime the wounded end touches the leather.

She hesitates for a moment, her hand already beginning to reach out to help before aborting the movement, afraid of overstepping.

But when he loses his grip on the bag, hissing as it swings gently against his injury, his hand pushing his book in even as the bag keeps closing, she steps forward. Her hands grab the ends of it, one holding it open and the other supporting the bottom so he can slip his things in easier.

He doesn't meet her eyes even as she tries to find his. His jaw is still clenched but his injured arm moves away to hide behind his back as he accepts her help.

"Is it paining you, today?"

She finds her voice just as he finally gets the last of his pencils in, his hand moving to close the clasp of the bag, her own pulling away. He meets her eyes then, his jaw softening, his eyes softening too. His shoulders fall as he sighs before he answers her.

"Some days are harder than others I find and last night wasn't very kind to me."

The nurse in her immediately wants to help, her hands itching to reach for him, her fingers fidgeting against her bag, her coat as they ache to comfort him somehow.

"Would you like to come in today and have it looked at?"

His smile is weak, his eyes falling away into a bitter resignation as he steps closer, gesturing for her to begin walking, his shoulders slumping as he walks beside her.

"Thank you, but truly it's been worse. I'm sure I'll be alright by morning."

She nods her assent, her heart prickling just a little at how easily he tells her that it's been worse. She turns away to face forward as they walk by the children he's been sketching, their voices still breaking into silly shouts and raucous laughter. The walk is quiet today, far more than usual and it makes her restless, her eyes wandering the trees, the sky and eventually falling back to him before quickly glancing away.

He does not speak and neither does she, unable to find the right way to segue into their usual easier conversation. Her mouth opens often as she tries to think of things to say, hesitating and then stopping altogether when she finds them too short, too much, not enough.

But the words she finally does speak shatter the heavy silence between them completely as they slip out from her lips.

His injured arm grazes the edge of his coat and he hisses in pain, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment and the words leave her before she can pull them back.

"How did you lose you hand?"

He freezes, her body freezing too as they both come to a stop. She regrets her words immediately, already beginning to form her apology for being insensitive-

"It's an unpleasant tale, Miss."

He looks at her then, his eyebrow raised in question, his voice tentative as he waits for her answer.

"I assure you I have seen worse, Captain-" she holds his gaze for a moment, the fire in hers meeting the flickering flame in his before she softens, "-and it is a long walk yet to the hospital. I'm sure I can handle it."

His body relaxes even as she speaks, his eyes twinkling, his smile soft in a way that looks something like affection.

"Of course, Miss Swan. I'd never doubt it."

* * *

_Somewhere on the coast of Belgium,_

_Summer, 1914_

The world looks grey to him when he first opens his eyes, scrambling onto his knees as water escapes him in hacking coughs, as he finally gets his breath back. The sky yet rumbles but the rain has slowed, the storm slowly moving away now having wreaked its havoc. Colourless clouds dim the moon. The sand beneath his hands, beneath his head as he lies on the beach, is wet between his fingers.

And then all at once, it burns.

His throat, his lungs burn every time he sucks in a breath. His chest, his legs, his face, riddled with a myriad of cuts burn in pointed little patches of fire. His head pounds with it, a storm raging inside even as the rain and his tears blur his vision, even as the wind howls in his ears outside.

But most of all, the strongest flame burns down his left arm. Licks of pain creeping up it, to his shoulder, his spine even as his eyes move down it, watching the bright, stark red that stains the grey ground as it drips from his wrist.

It takes a moment for him to register the large piece of glass that pierces his skin.

The shout of pain that leaves his throat then is as jagged as the edges of the glass. He knows not if it is only the pain in his hand or the pain in his heart that pulls the sound from his throat, only that it hurts and hurts and hurts.

When his scream turns into a broken sob, his brother's last words still ringing in his ears, he lets himself fall, his head resting against the wet sand. And when his sobs quiet to soft hiccups, he tries to listen, for any other screams, for anyone calling out for help, for any other man who had survived this.

But despite the howling wind and the thundering rain, all he hears is the heavy silence.

Slowly, painfully, eventually, he gets himself to stand, his right arm holding his left gently against his chest, his fingers wrapped around his forearm. His eyes find the glass again, the edges of it coloured in his blood, his wrist yet slowly dripping crimson onto the sand below. The glass shifts every time he moves his hand, every time he takes a step and each time that it does, he feels his body jerk in response, another scream bubbling in his aching chest.

He knows what he has to do, his mind running through the motions, his body preparing for it as he bends his head and turns to the right, catching a patch of his uniform between his teeth, his eyes clenched shut as his right hand reaches for the piece of glass.

It slips through his fingers at first, as he tries to grip it by its flat sides, the pounding of his heart only growing louder as the inevitable delays. He feels an edge slice into his right palm as he changes his grip and this time, the glass pulls out with a quick jerk of his hand.

The pain spreads like fire through his veins, his eyes watering with it, his mouth caught between a scream and a sob, his uniform clenched between his teeth.

He lets go to look at the injury now, his vision still blurred both from tears and the retreating rain that has left a fine mist in the air. The slice in his arm pulses softly as blood flows freely from it.

Too freely.

His vision begins to blur even more as he sways on his feet, frowning as he realises that he is losing too much blood, that he needs to staunch the flow before he can move any further. But, his thoughts are slow, his actions slower as he fumbles in his pockets for something, anything to tie around his wrist.

It takes a few moments of searching, his right hand deep in his pockets even as he holds his left as steadily as he can before he finds it. A handkerchief.

White and clean and almost new.

And Liam's.

He'd pressed it into Killian's hand only that morning, asked him to keep it handy because-

_"You never know when you might need something to wipe your nose with, little brother."_

He chuckles softly through the haze of his vision, slowly shaking the fabric open before realising that he would have to do this one-handed. He looks about for a moment, as though looking for a chair, before shaking his head and stumbling to his knees.

The sand grazes the cuts on his knees as he falls, scraping against the scratches that make him wince. His breaths are shallower, harsher now, even as he tries to regulate them. He lays the fabric as flat as he can on the slope of his knee, making two opposite points of the square meet and then folding it into a long strip. He lays his wrist face down, upon the fabric, wincing again as the wound touches it, tears burning his vision. He pulls up one side and then the other of the strip of cloth, crossing them. One end of it finds his fingers as he holds the other steady with his teeth, panting breaths making his shoulders shake even as he forces himself to calm them, breathe through his nose.

Slow and deep, slow and deep.

He pushes the end of the strip he holds in his hand under and then pulls the knot tight, biting down hard on the cloth between his teeth, his eyes squeezing shut even as more tears escape him.

He does it again.

And again.

Until the cloth is fixed in place, the blood dripping down his wrist finally slowing its pace, the white of Liam's handkerchief stained with it. He finds himself swaying in place once more but he drops his hand and takes a breath, takes a step.

And another.

And another.

He limps across the stretch of the beach that he can see, wreckage of their ship in pieces stranded across the emptiness of the sands, brought here perhaps upon the same current that had carried him. His uniform weighs heavy on his shoulders, rain having soaked him to the bone, his voice shivering as he calls out weakly. For his brother, his crewmates, anyone at all.

He spends what feels like hours upon the sand, his shoes sinking into the wetness of it every time he takes a step, his ears ringing with thunder as he walks among the bones of what had been his home for the last few months.

A scream gathers itself in his chest with every step as he realises that there is no one else, that it is him alone.

He finds a few bodies, most unrecognisable, stabbed through with shrapnel or burned through by the fire. He feels shame flood his face even as he finds himself feeling relief at not knowing who exactly it was that he had lost in that way, his brother's face as he had fallen into the flames plaguing him everytime he closes his eyes.

He is not sure what providence had decided that of all the honourable, good men upon that ship, he should be the one to survive. But survive he had.

_I want my brother_

Inexplicably, the words he has not thought consciously in over a decade cross mind.

And stay there, growing louder and louder still as he walks.

The scream building in his chest grows louder too, pulling at his frayed edges and holding him together even as it begins to fall from his eyes, his tears burning through the ash on his face.

_I want my brother_

His wrist burns, his breath coming in more and more shallow with every inhale, a shadow of Liam's touch holding his lifeblood in place. The cold makes him shiver, remnants of the storm still lurking in the air as he walks, his fingers going numb.

He feels as though he has lost all feeling in his left hand beneath where the handkerchief is tied and yet he cannot be sure if it is the cold, or the glass that has left a jagged hole upon his wrist.

_I want my brother_

He has walked too far he realises, pieces of wreckage no longer dotting the beach, nothing but blurry patches of darkness upon the pale sand in the distance.

_I WANT MY BROTHER_

His wrist throbs with the beat of his heart, his eyes burn, his every step pulling him further, his every breath bringing him crashing down into this new reality. Where his brother could no longer answer his silent pleas, where he had lost his friends, his home in service of a man who had been naught but a coward, where his left hand may not survive the night.

(Where it feels like all that is left of him in the pain in his body and the pain in his heart.)

It is a little sad, he thinks idly, his thoughts becoming heavy, hazy, his legs giving way as he lands on his knees, that the most comforting thought in his mind is that he may not survive the night either.

And he wants to chase it. He wants to disappear, to no longer exist in this world of grey and burning red.

It is the last thought he thinks before everything goes black once more, the pull of sleep too powerful even for the pain that makes him.

* * *

He wakes to sunlight in his eyes, arms under his shoulders trying to raise him and the sound of dog barking faintly in his ears.

He hears a voice on his right, the words strained but foreign as they was over his ears, his mind uncomprehending of their meaning.

A second voice joins it.

It is shriller, words coming out in sharp bursts in between shallow breaths, a grunt escaping them. His cheek is pressed against the ground, lying on his stomach as he feels his left arm jerk just a little higher before falling back to the ground again. It is then that he fully wakes, sand pushing up against the cut on his wrist, pressed in deeper by the drop, his mouth opening in a hoarse scrape of a scream.

He looks up, his vision blurry, his eyes dry, burning as he blinks up at the person who was still trying to hoist him into a standing position. An older woman, her hair grey and tied into a braid that comes over her shoulder, flowers on her dress under a deep red coat as she lifts him further, her arms stronger than he expects as she almost succeeds before he is flopping down again.

She notices that his eyes are open, her own widening for a minute before she speaks to him again, a rapid stream of words in the same foreign language as before. He opens his mouth to answer, noticing the tightness of his cheeks as he does, the sand caked upon his face, his body.

But his throat burns too much, dry and scraped raw from his ordeal and he can only cough and shake his head, hope that she understands.

She seems to, for she stops speaking, nodding before she lifts his arm over her shoulder, gesturing with her other hand for him to stand. He nods in response, speaking to her in the silence of their mutual incomprehension.

He moves his knees first, dragging them against the sand, sharp aches pulling through his legs as his uniform chafes the cuts upon them again. A grimace pulls at his face as his mouth opens in a scream that refuses to leave his throat.

"Shhh-"

The woman's voice is low, soothing as her other hand comes around his opposite shoulder, coaxing him gently into standing even as his feet slide in the damp sand, even as his knees buckle under him a few times before he is finally able to stay upright.

The woman is shorter than him, her arm stretching to reach his shoulder, the other now holding on to his upper arm even as he favours his right side, swaying in her direction, leaning his weight on the arm supporting him.

His eyes flicker to the young girl who stands on his other side. The second voice, he thinks. She seems to have abandoned her earlier work of trying to help him, standing at a distance instead, her hand on her dog's head, scratching softly at his fur as she looks warily upon him.

He must be quite a sight, he imagines. Blood and sand caked and settled into the creases of his clothes, his skin, his hair, flaking away every time he moves. The cut on his cheek bleeding down his face, the wound clotted over now, leaving a scab in its place. His wrist held together by a crimson stained kerchief, his hand stained in old blood.

He wonders if some of it is Liam's.

_"Est-ce que vous m'entendez, soldat?"_

The older woman's voice finds him again, pulls him out of his lost gaze upon his arm.

_"Vous avez l'air d'être anglais mais cela fait fort longtemps que je n'ai pu pratiquer la langue. Comprenez-vous le français?"_

He finds he understands her words now, a phrase or a piece of a sentence suddenly lighting up in his mind as he comprehends.

_Something something English. Something something something understand, something something French?_

Liam's lessons, lost somewhere in the shadowy corners of his mind come back to him slowly.

He turns to face the woman, meeting her eyes, his mouth opening to answer but losing himself as he tries to translate what little he remembers into words but she must see the understanding in his eyes because she smiles and puts her hand, that's not holding him up forward as if to shake his.

"Ruth."

He takes her hand, his voice a rasp as he answers.

"Killian."

* * *

His eyes open, his body jerking back into consciousness as Ruth shifts his arm higher upon her shoulder. They walk across the beach, his feet sinking into the sand as he sways, his gait unsteady as he loses his balance, Ruth's arm catching him every time he does. His eyes follow the dog's tail as it wags in front of him, the girl leading their strange little group, talking to Ruth rapidly in the language she had first spoken to him in.

Dutch? He thinks, his mind too bleary to understand where he is, why this woman was helping him, why there were flowers upon her clothes when there was but blood and death upon his.

* * *

His eyes open, his body pulling away from Ruth as he awakens. The sky is brighter now, sunlight glittering upon the little girl's hair as it glows almost golden, still walking ahead of them. The little dog's white fur is covered in sand as he tries running in it, spraying it around him in a blur.

He realises again how he can't feel the fingers on his left hand anymore.

* * *

His eyes open, his body suddenly straightening, Ruth grunts as he takes his weight off her. The ground beneath him feels more solid now, his feet staying steady as they cross the little field. It feels like it has been hours though he can still smell the ocean upon the air, still hear a distant murmur of the waves.

They turn the corner around a small hillock when he sees the house, smoke from its chimney, the little girl bounding forward as they reach it, the dog nipping at her heels.

He feels like an intruder in a perfect composition. The idyllic home, the happy family and then him, soaked, shivering and on the verge of fainting, trailing blood behind him on the clean, new grass as he leans upon the shoulder of a woman old enough to be his mother.

But she is strong, her body holding him steady even as she opens the door to her home. Allowing him through despite his uniform, his accent, his language. He is yet not sure which nation he is in but he is certain the Jewel had not crashed upon the waves of friendly waters, Ruth's language telling him the same thing and yet this woman who was supposed to be his enemy, who was-

He grunts, biting his lip as she lets go of his shoulder, his body flopping down into a soft rocking chair by a window. The chair begins to creak as it moves, his right hand holding on to the arm rest, his left hanging uselessly by his side. The chair sways back and forth, back and forth just out of time with the sound of a clock ticking quietly in the corner of the room.

It is then that he realises how quiet it is. Ruth and the little girl's voices fading in and out as they walk from this room to the next, carrying in bandages and clothes, the soft thumps of fabric being placed upon the floor the only noises they make.

He feels his soul shiver as he finally looks around their little home, the idyllic picture he had imagined in his head replaced by something much sadder. The house is small but well furnished, full of cozy rugs and beautiful art but it is eerily empty. Its rooms stare out at him as if looking for their occupants but only finding the young girl and the old lady.

His chair rocks slower now, just a tiny back and forth motion that has his eyes slowly slipping shut even as his mind runs wild. He feels as though his thoughts sail upon the waves of a tumultuous ocean, tossed this way and that, drowning under the strength of the aches in his body only to resurface before getting lost once more. It becomes harder and harder for him to hold on to a single thread, his mind too lost, too slow.

So he lets the swaying of the chair, the ticking of the clock and the exhaustion in his bones pull him under.

* * *

His eyes open again-almost immediately after he had shut them- when he feels a shooting pain up his left arm, his body straightening in his chair even as he gasps in a few frantic breaths.

He looks to the left where his arm hangs over the edge of the chair. His hand is completely numb now, his fingers unmoving even as he tries to shift them. Pushing away the panic brewing in his belly as to what this means, he looks for what had hurt his wrist.

It is a picture frame.

It is but a rectangle of wood that surrounds a slightly hazy photograph of people. A family. This family.

They pose a little stiffly, their smiles just a touch forced as though they had been asked to stand there for a long time, arranged this way and that before finally the blinding flash had gone off, capturing this moment in shades of black and white and grey.

They sit together on a bench, arranged from left to right. He sees who he assumes is the father, then the little girl in her grandmother's lap and then the mother. The father sits straight and tall, dressed in a smart coat and hat, his smile perfect as he looks straight ahead, his hand reaching around the grandmother's (his mother or her's he cannot be certain) shoulder and holding on to his wife's. His wife on the other end is just a little bit softer. Her eyes not looking at the camera but at the little girl next to her. Her coat is a muted grey in the picture, her hat just a little bit askew.

He can almost see it, the little girl in her arms as they had walked in to get their picture taken, clutching at the little woven baubles in her mother's hat, pulling it this way and that, leaving it just a little bit out of place even as they'd taken their seats.

The grandmother sits in between with the biggest smile on her face, her eyes only for the little girl in her arms. And the little girl- she laughs.

Her head falling back onto her grandmother's shoulder, her mouth open in glee, her hands clapping together in front of her. He finds himself smiling softly, his hand brushing against the glass and feeling nothing even as he wonders what it was that had made her laugh, what it was that made her father's eyes twinkle, betraying his own laugh, what it was that made this family so happy.

_"Ôtez vos vêtements trempés, jeune homme, ou vous allez attraper froid."_

Ruth comes back then and he looks away from the photo to see her. She stands before him holding a stack of clean clothes, plain and dark colours, her hands curling around the fabric as she follows the line of his hand to the picture.

Her eyes change immediately, softening into a pain that he has just begun to acquaint himself with and he wonders just how long it has been since she had lost them, just how long it had been that she had begun to look so much older.

He tries to stand, take the clothes from her, wondering softly if they had belonged to the man in the picture but he falls back into the chair, his knees no longer co-operating with his intentions. Ruth tears her eyes away from the picture, moving quickly to help him up, clothes shifting to her other hand as she mumbles something that sounds like a whispered apology.

She walks and stumbles with him to a door across from the chair in silence even as he watches her. Wondering, trying, searching for the words to ask her why, to ask her what next, to say thank you.

The door opens into a large room, a bed in the centre, dim lanterns already lit bathing the room in a soft glow.

She sits him down on the side of the bed, dropping the clothes by his side before bending down to help him with his soaked boots.

He finally remembers the word, Liam's voice teaching him it, the soft cadence of it running through his mind, slipping onto his lips.

_"Merci."_

Ruth looks up at him and smiles.

* * *

He wakes in a sweat.

Ruth had helped him into dry new clothes, put warm socks on him, helped him sip on some water, nibble on some bread before bundling him into bed. The covers that had first felt like a soft weight upon him, warming him up from the inside suddenly feel like a dead weight pulling him under, the heat unbearable as he struggles to sit up.

His breath comes hard even as he tries to pull the covers off of himself, his throat catching on the shout that waits to leave it. But suddenly, Ruth is there, her hand catching his in the same strong grip as before as she steadies him, as her other hand pulls the blankets away from him, cold air rushing into fill the space where they had been.

He takes deep gasping breaths as he looks up at her, his mouth opening again to thank her but she is frowning, her eyes wide as she looks down at his left hand.

It is then that he sees it. Beneath the new cloth that she had tied while he'd slept.

Red and swollen, his hand is almost twice its size. It looks as though part of another being entirely and yet he does not feel it. He does not feel his fingers, he does not feel Ruth's fingers as she softly presses them against his hand.

He shivers then, sweat cooling on his feverish body as another breeze passes through the house, the door slamming as someone enters. The little girl he assumes.

_"Oh mon dieu, nous devons partir immédiatement!"_

Her voice is frantic and he catches a word or two as she asks for him come with her before she turns to talk to the little girl in words he cannot understand.

But immediately, the little girl is standing beside him, her little hand curling around his right, pulling on him to stand. She looks afraid, catching onto her grandmother's tone and his own pale, drawn face as he stumbles to his feet. She leads him back into the living room, her small hand clutching at his as he sways, fumbling and leaning on anything he can until he is plopping back down into the rocking chair.

It sways again as he sits. Back and forth, back and forth as the little girl races away, as Ruth emerges from another door across from him, her right hand fumbling with her coat even as she holds another bigger coat in the other, all while making her way towards him.

She is frantic in her actions, missing the arm hole on her coat multiple times before finally pulling it around her shoulders.

His arm pulses still in time with the feverish beating of his heart, just out of time with the steady back and forth of the chair. His pain keeps him afloat and awake even as his body begins to sag in the chair, a sob caught in his throats as he clenches his jaw to keep it from escaping.

Ruth comes to a stop in front of him, dropping the other coat-meant for him, he realises softly- and falling to her knees as she puts her hands on his arms, ready to help him stand and-

_"Hôpital! Dépêchez-vous."_

Hospital. He understands that. But how? Here?

Here, on this foreign shore where no one knows him, where his colours mark him as an outsider at best, an enemy at worst, where he does not speak the tongue, where he does not know how to say thank you to this woman who kneels before him now with real worry etched across her face for a man she had met a few hours ago.

"Why?"

The word leaves his lips in a helpless, broken whisper, his shoulders rising and falling even as he lifts his right hand to curl around hers.

He doesn't know if she understands but she smiles then, soft and sad and filled with almosts.

Her eyes find the photograph that still sits beside him on the table before she meets his eyes again.

_"Vous me rappellez mon fils."_

Her hand cups his cheek for a moment and somehow he understands her.

* * *

The trip to the hospital is stuttered at best as they limp there with his body giving way periodically, sweat dripping from his brow from exhaustion and pain.

Ruth has been walking him through small streets and back alleyways as they make their way through whatever small coastal town he had found himself in. He doesn't much notice his surroundings beyond the cool stone of the wall beneath his palms and the uneven cobblestones beneath his feet. She keeps him just out of sight from the one or two people who pass them, helping him lean against the wall when he needs to, pulling on his hand to stumble just a little faster when she can't stop.

The pulsing in his arm has only gotten worse, the rest of his body joining with its own aches and pains, the fever making his head swim and his steps waver.

He hopes it is not too far a walk because the burning in his eyes and his breath seems to have spread to his feet, his knees buckling every third step that he takes.

He hopes it is not too far a walk because his hand looks even more swollen than before, leaking something yellow and viscous.

He hopes it is not too far a walk because he just wants to rest.

* * *

He snaps into attention when Ruth pulls on his hand, pulling him away from the wall against which he had just collapsed.

_"Ce n'est plus très loin, tenez bon."_

He nods, he thinks before pushing off the wall, the light black coat around him swinging around his knees as he does.

* * *

They walk in from the back doors.

The hospital is a little sleepy, a little quiet. Even though the air still murmurs with the sounds of people going about the business of staying alive, it is not quite as loud as what he had seen back home in London.

Ruth walks more easily now, her shoulders more relaxed than they had been out on the street as she leads him easily through doors and hallways and he wonders idly if perhaps she had been a nurse in another life.

But the thought is carried away on another current of pain as she seats him on a chair opposite a set of doors, murmuring something to him before disappearing behind them.

His eyes close with visions of smiling young women with flowers on their dresses swimming behind them.

* * *

Ruth pulls him through the doors quickly, the pain now making him too dizzy to stand, his head heavy, his body hot and cold in equal turns as his left wrist continues to pulse in time with his heart.

* * *

The doctor is a small, stocky man with a beard, his grip strong as he helps Killian onto a seat, as he pulls his injured arm onto a table to examine it. Sunlight drifts in from a window behind the doctor, his outline glowing at the edges.

He shakes his head, poking at the swollen hand and bending down to meet Killian's eyes. He realises that he is being asked a question but cannot bring himself to understand or respond. His eyes can't seem to focus and he shakes his head, his jaw still clenched tight as he tries to clear it but nothing comes, only the pain.

Ruth sits beside him, her hand still curled around his right.

He only squeezes it harder.

* * *

The doctor is speaking to Ruth who keeps stealing glances at Killian as he bows his head, a sob finally escaping him as the burning refuses to end, the exhaustion pulling on his body to stop.

God, he just wants to sleep.

* * *

They've given him something, he realises. His head swimming even more than before but the pain is just a slice dimmer than before.

He squeezes his right hand, looking for Ruth's now familiar, comforting touch and finding nothing. He raises his head looking for her, his arm outstretched as he reaches for her, his throat releasing a soft whimper.

She comes back to sit with him immediately, her hand finding his, her voice shushing him as her other hand pushes his hair back, stroking it gently, steadily.

He leans into her touch, his eyes closing as he falls into the stranger who had somehow become his only friend until suddenly, she stops.

He opens his eyes to meet hers but she is looking past him, her eyes wide even as she squeezes his hand harder.

He follows her gaze and sees it.

A flash of the blade glinting in the sunlight.

* * *

They give him something to bite on and Ruth does not leave his side even as he squeezes her hand till his knuckles are white, his breath coming in harsh, shallow pants as the doctor sets up the guillotine.

Sobs eventually escape him as he squeezes his eyes shut, as he suddenly feels like a child caught in a nightmare that he cannot run away from.

He shakes his head to stop the tears, biting down on the piece of leather between his teeth.

He dimly hears the doctor ask something, hears Ruth murmur a constant string of reassurances, hears the _shing_ of the blade releasing.

Then, there is only the pain.

And the scream that he has been carrying since that first hit of cannons upon his ship finally leaves his throat in full.

* * *

_London, England_

_Winter, 1915_

He had tumbled out of the back of a truck two days later, a new name upon his lips and false papers in his pockets.

Ruth had known a nurse at the hospital who was English, who would help him. They had smuggled him through basements, in the backs of carriages and hidden in trains. They had given him a new name and profession, a new something to mumble with his head low when someone asked.

_Je m'appelle Colin._

They had shown him naught but kindness even as he travelled past his so called enemy each day. They had allowed him to come back home and he was grateful. Even though he had come back to open the doors of a house too empty, too big for just-

He doesn't realise that he is clenching his fist until he feels a warm gloved hand upon it.

"Captain, I'm so sorry."

He turns to look at her, his vision blurred just a little from tears that he quickly blinks away, smiling a soft smile at the woman who sits beside him, her mouth opening and closing as she tries to look for the right words.

They had found themselves at a bench not too far from where they had begun, his story calling for them to be seated as he told it and though he had stuttered at first, telling her of how he had lost his brother, his voice had slowly grown steadier and as he had spoken, she had swayed closer, moving along the bench until he could feel the warmth of her shoulder next to his, her knee almost touching his.

And now, though it seems that she cannot find the right thing to say, her eyes speak for her, as does her touch. She turns his fist face up, her fingers stroking his knuckles softly until it loosens, his hand open to her palm up. Her fingers close around his as she squeezes softly, leaning forward to say something else but before she can speak-

"Emma! Emma! There you are!"

She pulls away from him as though she has been burned, her hand leaving his at once, her body moving along the bench until she is sitting at the other end from him. He would smile at her stricken expression, her eyes wide, as though she has been caught doing something she ought not to do. But the smile is a small, sad thing, his mind still lost in the mires of his memory and his heart feeling the loss of her warmth beside him, left wondering what it would feel like to hold her hand in truth, skin to skin.

"Anna, what's wrong?"

He looks up to see the red headed woman from the hospital bent over her knees as she comes to a stop before them, her shoulders heaving under her sharp breaths as she tries to recover from running. She is still dressed in her VAD uniform, her cap a little askew on her head, the hem of her dress muddy from running.

Emma stands and reaches for Anna, asking again, concern colouring her voice.

"Are you alright? Is everything okay?"

He stands to follow her, a frown creeping up his face as he wonders what it had been that had made her run so far.

"Emma, it's Henry," Anna straightens and Emma stiffens, her face suddenly pale as she looks at Anna, inhaling a quick breath but before she can ask, Anna answers her.

"He wasn't at Roland's after school. Kristoff just came running to the hospital, he says a buddy of his thinks he saw a boy with brown hair and a red and blue striped scarf climb on board the train that's taking the new recruits to the training camps and he thinks it's got to be Henry and he's already gone to find him but Emma, we should go because what if he gets there and-"

Emma's hand drops from Anna's shoulder, her mouth opening to speak but her words lost, her eyes a little wild as she turns back around to the bench where she's left her bag, her hands frantic as she tries to close it but she struggles, her hands missing the clasp, once. Twice.

He's beside her in two strides, his hand covering hers this time, closing the clasp of her bag quickly before placing it on her shoulder. She looks at him and though he has not known her long, he has never seen her truly afraid before today, her eyes looking between his, her knuckles white around the strap of her bag as she tries to collect herself.

"Emma, look at me."

His hand finds the warmth of her glove, loops loosely around her fingers as he tries to get her attention.

It seems to work for her gaze focuses on his.

"You'll find him."

She nods and he swears he sees a tiny smile before she turns away, pulling him along with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes, historical or otherwise:
> 
> In this chapter,
> 
> The bird Killian is sketching is a European Starling.
> 
> Amputations were very common in WW1 in case on infected limbs because antibiotics hadn’t been invented yet and infection would most certainly lead to much worse. So, they would remove the limb itself. Over 240,000 soldiers suffered from partial or total leg or arm amputations in the war.
> 
> These were done via Guillotine.
> 
> Belgium was occupied by Germany in 1914 but I’ve taken artistic licence and pushed it up a bit.
> 
> The British nurse who smuggled Allied soldiers out of occupied Belgium is totally real and her name was Edith Cavell. She was shot down by a German firing squad on October 12, 1915 on suspicion of being a spy for the Allies an harbouring Allied soldiers.
> 
> I hope you’re still with me for the rest of this and please do let me know what you think <3


	9. Blush

_London, England_

_Winter, 1915_

It is a frantic run to the tube station, Emma’s hand dropping Killian’s eventually as she jogs forward to talk to Anna but her gaze keeps turning to him, looking for him as though making sure he is still there.

They walk quickly through stairs and corridors lined with posters that call for more recruits, that call for women to allow their men to enlist, that promise men that they would be heroes. The posters show strong men standing straight and tall in their clean, pressed uniforms. They show scenes of victory, scenes of glorious reunions, scenes of women tearfully yet proudly saying goodbye, of children plying their fathers with questions about the war.

Designed to coerce, guilt and force men into fighting for King and Country, he wonders how much of a part these pictures had played in having them chase after a little boy, not yet 16, who had run away to join a war.

Emma has steadied since they had entered the station, surer now that they had a plan and a clear destination. Anna spares him a curious glance now and then as he walks a few steps behind them, her brows knit in confusion before turning away. He feels a tell tale warmth rush through his cheeks, his hand flexing to scratch behind his ear, to have something to distract from the way each glance reminds him that he is but a stranger to her.

But, Emma’s grateful gaze keeps him following them.

Her steps ring steadily through another set of stairs before they turn into a platform where a train to Kings’ Cross has just pulled in. Her hand reaches back towards him even as her eyes look ahead before breaking into a run to make sure she catches it.

With a quick glance at one another, he and Anna follow.

* * *

The doors open and they stumble into the cabin all together, breaths coming in a little short as they scan for seats.

“There--”

Anna points to three seats in the back of the carriage along the window, beginning to move in that direction even as more people begin to file in behind them. Emma walks beside him now, her hand brushing his as they walk in the narrow space between the seats, Anna in front of them.

“Miss Swan--”

He begins to speak without thinking through what he is about to say, his mind catching up with his mouth as he pauses. She turns to meet his eyes and he wants to ask her why she’s allowed him to come with her, why she’s trusting him when he’s seen and he knows how easy it is for her to withdraw. Why she doesn’t seem to be doing so with him.  
  
There is a desperate question in her eyes too, perhaps asking the same things of herself that he wishes to ask of her. Her mouth opens to answer, her eyes widening, her posture stiffening as she takes the tiniest step back from him and he wishes he had never thought to ask her why.

But the train jerks then as it begins to move, pushing him into her, his feet staggering on the floor of the train as he tries to keep his balance, as he tries to keep hers. His hand reaches for her shoulder, his left arm trying and failing to rest on the back of a seat beside him, the sudden pressure on his wound pulling a sharp gasp and a swallowed shout from him as he bites his lip, his eyes squeezing shut until he sees stars.

The pain sings loud through his body, echoing through his muscles and bones until the only sound he hears are the sharp pants of his own breath, the burning in his eyes as tears slip past between his lashes, the soft, scratch of her coat against his fingers.

When the haze clears, his eyes open to her the sight of hers. She is much closer to him now, her gloved fingers covering his, her other hand reaching for his left arm, wrapping softly around his wrist.

“Captain, are you alright?”

He nods in response, his breath still harsh. But, his eyes are caught in the concern that is trapped in hers, her mouth opening and closing once more as she blinks rapidly. Her hands drop his then, her eyes dropping his gaze as well. She takes a step back, turns away from him before sitting down next to Anna, her back to the window.

He stands there for a moment, lost somewhere between the pain that still stings his wrist and the warmth of her glove around his fingers for the second time today. But, Anna’s still curious eyes on him and a pointed clearing of a throat behind him pull him out of his daze. He mumbles an apology and takes the empty seat next to Emma.

She pulls her hat off as soon as daylight is blocked out by the tunnels, the heat of the people surrounding them enough to fight the cold of the outside, her movements stuttered as though she isn’t quite here.

Her hat sits in her lap as she pulls off one glove and then another. Her head is bent forward as though concentrating on her task but her eyes are far away. He looks away from her then, feeling as though he is intruding upon something private, their forced proximity not enough permission for him to be a spectator as she allows herself to feel the strength of her fear and anxiety.

Instead, his eyes trail along the darkness that whizzes past them as the train moves through the tunnels, his mind drifting from one thought to another, his fingers itching to take her hand once more, to somehow calm her own fidgeting fingers and restless heart.

But the train forces them to sit, to be still as it takes them towards where they need to go. Stopping and starting and moving at a pace of its own, it is uncaring of the urgency that rules its passenger’s hearts. He can see how it weighs on her, feels her tense beside him-- coiling tighter and tighter every time the train stops at a station-- even as he keeps his eyes resolutely turned away.

The train stops at its next station and they all jerk softly as it brakes, her shoulder falling into his, the warmth of her coat branding him wherever she touches. He inhales sharply, about to move away and apologise but before he can, the pressure increases as she leans just a little more against him.

It is such a little press, that he wonders if anyone sitting across from them would even notice. But he does. He turns to look at her then, his lips brimming with questions once more. Questions that he is afraid to ask, that he is afraid will break the fragile string that had begun to connect them, that will pull her shoulder away from his, that will dim her smile when she looks at him, that will drop her gaze from his.

But her eyes are closed, frown knitting her eyebrows together, her hand resting on the armrest between them, tense as she grips the soft upholstery, little folds forming in the fabric.

(Almost the same as the little folds that form on the fabric of his seat where his own fingers grip it tight.)

* * *

“Read all about it! British still smashing on! Thrilling pictures inside! Only-”

The newspaper boy’s voice disappears into the hum of the crowd at the station as they race past him.

It had taken them three sets of stairs to move from the underground to the overground station, their surroundings melting into a blur as he and Anna had tried to keep up with Emma’s frantic pace. All of the energy she had had coiled inside of her as they had sat in the train had come pouring out.

They walk just as fast now, sunlight streaming in through large windows in the overground, lighting her golden hair on fire as she moves, her eyes scanning the boards by each platform looking for her son. He looks too, his eyes searching for the all too familiar groups of uniformed young men flocking by a train about to take them to a training camp, the nervous energy flowing through them palpable as they wait to embark on their great adventure.

After all, he had been one of them but a few years ago.

Though his eyes and his mind drift frantically between looking for the train with the new recruits and Emma’s deep blue coat flaring out behind her as she walks, he sees them first.

“Miss Swan! There!”

She looks back at him, her eyes following his hand to where he gestures, a small group of boys standing by a train, their voices muddling into an excited hum that is audible where they stand, their eyes bright, their bags heavy upon their shoulders. But standing just a little apart is a tall man with hair that looks almost white in the sunlight, uniformed himself, his eyes cast outwards as he scans the station, his hand around the shoulders of a young boy in a blue and red striped scarf.

The only bright colours on that platform of brown.

Emma shoots Killian a grateful look, her mouth curving into a small smile before she begins to make her way to her son, wind fluttering through her hair as she goes.

“Come on, don’t you want to meet him?”

Anna’s voice is right next to him, a conspiratory whisper that pulls him out of his contemplative gaze upon the shapes that Emma’s hair makes against the darkness of her coat. He frowns as he looks down at the shorter woman, a question in his brow, his mouth opening to speak as he realises that he had never thought past this moment.

What happens now?

Does he meet her son? Does he become a part of this scene? Become more than the observer, the accidentally recruited help?

“Come on, she’d want you to. I know it.”

Anna’s eyes are bright, her smile encouraging as she looks at him and suddenly he remembers Emma saying no to him when he had asked to speak to her son before. An age ago, when he had not known the touch of her hand or the way her smile made all his colours brighter. An age ago when she had been but his nurse and now she is--

Perhaps things have changed for her as well?

He does not have the time to think it through, Anna’s hand curves around his forearm, pulling him along with her as she makes him take his first steps towards the platform.

Towards Emma.

* * *

The boy stands tall, taller than most boys his age he reckons. He does not slump, his shoulders raised as he stands beside the other man, his eyes looking at the train, at the men who stand there.

And just like that, Killian sees Liam standing there instead.

The lad holds the same naive fervour in his eyes as he looks upon the men that line the platform, the train that waits to take them away to their destinies. He cradles the same yearning, the same hope that Liam had when he had first enlisted, standing on a far less crowded platform as Killian had come to say his goodbyes. Back when the war was a long way to come and Killian was lost in his art, in his teaching, in Milah.

But even after, once he had lost her, once he had lost himself, the Navy had never been more than escape, more than a way to start anew, more than a way to make his brother proud, to be a hero.

For _him_.

He had never felt that need to serve the way that Liam had, never had that fire that yearned to be a part of something, to serve a purpose greater than oneself.

Killian has always been a little too selfish for that he imagines. But Liam had it, burning rich and deep behind his eyes, the same way that it seems to do in Henry’s.

But as tall as the boy stands, as bright as the fire burns in his eyes, it all softens the minute he catches sight of his mother racing towards him. His hand leaving the man’s grasp as he takes a step and then another in Emma’s direction, coming to a stop as her arms envelope him, his own hanging by her side for a moment before coming around her waist and pressing closer.

Emma pulls away to take a look at his face, her fingers pushing back a bit of hair that has fallen over his brow, her knees bending just a little to meet his eyes. He sees the gold of her hair glint in the sunlight as she shakes her head before pulling Henry into a hug once more.

“What happened?”

Anna’s voice is directed away from him, the tall blond man now standing on her other side. He hadn’t noticed his approach, too lost in his own thoughts but the man spares a confused look at him before looking down at Anna, his hand taking hers before he answers, Killian’s eyes pulled away once more to Henry and Emma.

“It was that Peter boy at school again. Henry said that he’d been saying awful things about him, about Emma, about how he hadn’t a father and that his family was shameful for not serving the King and Henry-- well you know Henry.”

Henry pulls out of his hug with Emma, his brow furrowed as his eyes avoid hers. Killian sees the remorse now in the slump of his shoulders, in the soft downturn of his lip. He begins to speak but Killian cannot make out the words from where he stands beside Anna and the blond man, a little ways away from mother and son.

He is pulled away from the scene again when he hears some fierce whispering by his side. Anna had moved away to stand closer to the tall man who was now sneaking looks at Killian in between his hushed conversation with her. Killian feels a bemused smile curl upon his lips as he watches them, silently cataloguing the way the man’s knees are softly bent as he talks to his much shorter companion, how Anna’s hair seems to turn almost rust coloured in the shadow of a cloud, how her blue uniform softens against the brown of the man’s uniform.

“Kristoff, he’s just here to help! You must say hello, come on.”

But before Kristoff has time to answer, Anna pulls on his arm and turns to Killian with a bright smile. He can’t help but raise his eyebrow and feel a silent camaraderie with Kristoff. For after all, he too has faced a determined Anna and he knows that there is no escape.

“Captain Jones, I’d like you to meet my husband, Sergeant Kristoff Bjorgman. He’s stationed at the recruitment office.”

Killian raises his hand to shake Kristoff’s, a shadow of his earlier smile still on his face even as Kristoff’s brow is still furrowed, his handshake a little wary, his posture stiff as he greets Killian.

“Nice to meet you, Sergeant.”

“Likewise, Captain.”

“Pardon my intrusion Captain but why are you--”

Kristoff’s sentence is cut quickly short by Anna’s elbow in his side, his head whipping to turn behind him as he straightens to look questioningly at his wife, his hand releasing Killian’s. Shorter than him in stature though she may be, Anna’s glare could bring Kristoff to his knees, he thinks.

“Kristoff!”

Her whispered reprimand only just reaches his ears before he is distracted once more.

“Thank you, Kristoff.”

Kristoff turns to face Emma, his brow softening immediately, his eyes running between her and Henry. Her arm is around her son’s shoulders now even as he continues to look chagrined, his eyes cast down as Kristoff responds.

“Of course.”

Emma smiles back at Kristoff with such warmth then, her eyes lighting up even as a sharp ray of sunlight betrays the wetness that yet shines in them. She reaches for his shoulder, squeezing it softly in thanks.

At first all Killian can do it stare at the softness in her face, the way her eyes are open for these people that stand in front of her, for the son at her side. He writes the curve of her mouth, the flash of her teeth, the light green of her eyes to his memory, his fingers itching for his brush, his palette, to mix the perfect shade of it.

But then, he sees the ease with which she touches them, the ease with she she allows herself to smile, to be tender. It induces an ache somewhere deep inside him that wishes for this. For family, for familiarity, for the intimacy that would allow him such easy smiles, an arm across his shoulder, a hand grasping his, arms pulling him into an embrace when his wrist pulses in pain.

For all he can do now is stand to the side, an extra line that mars this perfect circle of Emma and the people she has made her family. All he can do after this is go home to empty rooms and empty walls.

The weight of this loneliness suddenly feels unbearable on his shoulders and he feels himself slump slightly. His feet shuffle against the ground as he prepares to speak, to bid them goodbye but before he can excuse himself, allow for them to have their moment without the interference of his presence, she turns to look at him.

Her smile is not as wide, as easy as it was with her friends. Her eyes are not as open, the shutters of them risen just enough that he sees only a hint of the light that lies behind them. But it is there.

And it stills him.

It feels as though he is standing on her shores, her waves lapping at his feet even as he sinks deeper and deeper into the sands every time she smiles at him.

But she continues speaking, unknowing and unaware of the way his heart has perhaps begun to beat just for her.

“Captain Jones, I’d like you to meet my son, Henry,” she looks away to face Henry, ”Henry, this is the Captain I was telling you about.”

He startles for a moment.

She’d told her son about him.

Her eyes meet his over Henry’s head and she must see his wide eyes and speechless mouth for her smile turns into a soft grin instead, a flash of teeth before she quickly reigns it in, only a shadow of it remaining.

He looks back at the boy and sees that Henry’s eyes have settled on him, bright and curious as questions begin to spill from his lips. One question barely finished--

“Wow! Were in you in a lot of battles Captain?”

\--before another follows.

“Is that how you lost your hand?”

“Henry!”

Emma’s voice is a soft hiss as shoots Killian an apologetic look before she turns to face Henry, meeting his eyes with her eyebrows raised.

“That’s quite alright Miss Swan.”

The questions may have stung had they come from anywhere else but the earnestness in the lad’s voice only makes him want to protect it, keep that innocence shining in his eyes, keep that unknowing excitement in his voice.

And yet he wants also to hold his hand, to sit him down and tell him the truth. That the war takes much more than it could ever give, that the things you see dim your eyes, that the hurt you inflict lies behind your ribcage forever, that the hurt inflicted upon you goes far deeper than skin and bones.

“I--well I wasn’t in that many battles before I lost this.”

His words are stumbled and stuttered as he tries to find the right ones.

“But was it amazing? Did you get a medal? Did the King write you a letter?”

“He--Henry, can I call you Henry?”

His voice is softer than Henry’s as he steps closer. The boy seems to sense the change in Killian’s mood for his mouth closes before he can begin another question, answering Killian’s own question with a nod. He meets Emma’s eyes over Henry’s head, her soft smile is grateful, her encouraging nod enough of a push to continue speaking to the boy.

“Henry, the war-- it’s not just heroes and medals.”

“I know that, Captain. But we’ve all got to make sacrifices for the King, for England. You did!”

The words he says are not his words, recited rote from something someone had said perhaps. Something he had read. Something that was told and shown to him again and again, that he may speak of which he does not know with such conviction.

Killian feels his heart sink, his eyes searching Henry’s brown ones as he tries to find a way to explain.

“I did but Henry, I lost more than my hand. I lost my family, my only brother. I lost something inside myself too and though I didn’t have anyone to come back to, I wonder if I would have been the same for them if I had. The war is big and brutal and uncaring. It does not care for you. It does not care for your mother--”

He stops speaking at the way the brightness vanishes from Henry’s face, his brows furrowed as he considers Killian’ words. Perhaps it had been too much. Perhaps he had overstepped. He waits for Henry to respond but the boy is silent for a long moment, Killian’s eyes drifting quickly to Emma.

She stands behind her son now, her hand on his shoulder, squeezing tight as she looks at his mop of brown hair. She must realise that he is looking at her for she turns her gaze to him, her eyes shining as she finds his questioning ones.

I’m sorry, he wants to say. He begins to step away, give them some space. His mouth begins to form the words but Henry’s voice stops him.

“Wasn’t it was worth it? Being able to help?”

Henry watches him carefully even as Killian stills, considering his answer, looking for something to say that would ease the boy’s mind but he cannot help but be truthful, now that he has already cracked the hopeful yearning that shone in Henry’s eyes.

“I am not sure that it was. Not yet.”

Henry nods in response, his eyes far away again. Killian watches him think and wonders if he had helped, if he had perhaps reached the boy, if he had perhaps eased Emma’s mind. The boy looks like her now more than ever, his eyes a deep brown where hers are as green as a gemstone but they hold the same fire, the same fight. Though his chin does not curve the same way, though his lips are fuller, he turns up his jaw like her, smiles softly, holding back a little just like she does.

A soft cough behind him pulls him out of his thoughts. Kristoff is moving closer to the three of them, having backed away at some point during his conversation with Henry.

Killian begins move away once more, but then, fingers encircle his wrist, stopping him in place.

Her hands are yet covered by her gloves and her touch still burns through his skin but when she looks at him with eyes that are just a little more open, with a smile that is half apologies and half thanks, the burning softens to a lingering warmth.

“Thank you.”

Her voice is a soft murmur in the silence between them as she steals his words from his mouth. Her lips move as if to say more but as he watches her look between his eyes, as he watches her fingers drop his, he knows that it has been too much, it has been too close and he takes a step back for her.

“Of course, Miss Swan.”

“Shall we go, Emma?”

Anna’s voice is soft beside him, pulling his gaze away from the hazel flecks in Emma’s eyes, his posture straightening as he takes yet another step back.

“Yes-- Yes, of course. Henry?”

Emma takes a few steps back herself, following the steps of their dance perfectly as she moves behind her son. Henry’s response is mumbled and distracted, his eyes still far away. They begin to walk and he instinctively makes to follow but finds himself stopping instead, watching her back as she moves through the small crown on the platform, her hair shining bright and golden, moving softly in the breeze as she goes.

She is quite a distance away when she realises that he is not behind them. She turns to look, her eyes searching the crowd for his face, softening instantly as she finds him. Her eyebrows rising in question as she begins to speak. But, the whistle of the train departing and the distance between them hides her voice and he can only watch her lips form his name.

_Captain Jones._

And just like that he is wondering what her lips would looks like as they spoke his first name.

Stupidly, desperately, naively perhaps. Short one hand and with one foot in a grave, he should not, could not allow himself to think of her this way.

And yet.

The heart knows no reason and it can only ache softly as he smiles and waves goodbye, as he watches her brows furrow in confusion, her hand raising to answer his wave, as he watches her walk away from him, the steam from the train blurring her edges as though he had dreamed her, the whistle of the train fading away into silence.

* * *

He thinks that it is some memory, some thought, some half articulated wish of his heart that has brought him here. Sitting at the bar by himself on Christmas Eve at The Warren House.

It has been a few long days since he had seen her at the station but he had not been able to gather the courage to go find her once more, gather the courage to know how to leave her once more. Instead, he had spent his days in front of a canvas, his fingers stained with shades of gold and green.

This morning when he had woken, he had thought of her. Her smile in the sunlight, her blue dress, her white apron, her hair escaping in golden wisps as she told him how nice it was that he would be home for Christmas. This morning when he had woken, he had taken a look about his house, bare of any decoration, bare of any sign of the holiday, bare of anything but him and the memories that made him.

This morning when he had woken, he hadn’t been able to bear being alone any longer.

So he had come here. Here where he was surrounded by people, where he could be lost but not alone, where he felt a strange, warm comfort as he looked upon faces he had come to know--even though they perhaps did not know him-- over the last few months.

“Another, please?”

He beckons Leroy over as he asks for the another drink, draining his glass. The man has gotten less and less grumpy as the evening had passed. His customers buying him a drink or two as they enjoy the holiday, the spirit of joy infectious in the small pub. People celebrating the little pleasures, in a few days of cheer before the men on leave went back to the front, before the women had to say goodbye once more or go back to the front themselves.

“Alone tonight?”

Leroys’s speech is just this side of slurred and it makes Killian chuckle, Leroy’s toothy smile and waggling eyebrows pulling the grin from behind his lips.

“Aye.”

Leroy shakes his head as he pours another round of ale into Killian’s mug, his cheeks flushed ruddy as he looks back up at him.

“You should find yourself a nice girl and have a dance.”

He gestures to the centre of the pub, Killian turning to look behind him as he has often done since he had come here. The chairs have been cleared away to form a rough circle, the piano moved to its other side with a note upon it inviting anyone to play.

Leroy’s rules are lax tonight as well he thinks, for men and women mingle freely in the pub, staying as long as they like, drinks sloshing on trays carried to tables. People have been playing music constantly, by turns beautiful melodies and drunken bashing of the notes escaping the piano keys.

A woman sits there now, her brown hair coiled behind her head, her eyes down as she concentrates on the soft tune that rings throughout the pub. Couples dance sweetly in the middle, fumbling through long forgotten lessons for waltzes, feet shuffling on the floor even as their smiles betray their joy at simply being close to one another.

“I don’t know, mate. Looks like they’re all quite occupied.”

Killian’s voice is a soft thing, wistful he might call it, as he watches a woman in a pink dress laugh, her partner spinning her around the floor, watching her with a tenderness that pulls at Killian’s heart. He feels a heavy hand on his shoulder then, Leroy’s voice gruff yet more affectionate than he has ever heard it, the alcohol warming it as he speaks.

“Don’t worry my boy, there is someone for you out there too.”

Killian turns back around just as a jumbled round of applause rings through the pub, the soft song ending and shifting into a much cheerier tune, the notes hopping and skipping through it as people begin to crowd upon the floor, finding new partners and standing in small groups, ready to begin the next dance.

Lifting his mug in thanks to Leroy, he takes a long drag.

“Here’s hoping.”

Leroy smiles before turning away to attend to the man at the end of the bar asking for another ale for his friend. A woman whose cheeks glow red in the warm light of the pub stands beside him, her hand around the man’s elbow as they wait.

The dancing goes on behind Killian and he begins to sip quietly at his drink, his eyes wandering the people who mill about the pub. No one is seated as they greet one another, mumbles and shouts of Merry Christmas along with a low hum of conversation lie on top of the music, sharp trills of giggles and booming laughter bursting through occasionally.

And he finds himself wistful once more, sure in the feeling now, wishing for something he cannot name, for something that he perhaps does not want to name.

The same something that had brought him here this night to begin with.

One last look at the laughing couple at the end of the bar, drinks in their hands as they wish Leroy a Merry Christmas, Killian looks back into his drink, his brow furrowed as he takes another long drag of the ale, a soft burn chasing it down his throat.

He is interrupted mid swallow by a shoulder jostling him in his seat. A man in a grey coat is leaning over the bar to beckon to Leroy, an apology and a wish for a happy holiday to Killian upon his lips before he inches away, a wide smile on his face as he looks behind him, gesturing at someone to wait.

Killian mumbles a wish of his own back, suddenly feeling the depth to which he is out of place here. Here in this place of joy and shared laughter. A quick drain of his mug and he begins to move, reaching behind him for his coat. But before he can reach his wallet--

“Hush Emma! Your tree was the most beautiful by far. The men in your ward loved it.”

“Alright, alright.”

Her voice, her name startles him as she often does. And he turns in his seat, searching for her, seeking her face, her voice as _he_ often does.

As he finds himself helpless to do.

“Thank you Elsa.”

As incredibly cliche, as woefully imperfect as it sounds, he can only think that she _glows._ Light from the lanterns around the pub warm her face even as her cheeks are red from the cold outside. Snow clings to her hat and coat in small puffs of white, her hair hidden and yet inevitably escaping whatever pins she had tried to confine it with, wisps of gold about her face fluttering as the door closes behind her.

She walks arm in arm with Elsa, Anna trailing after them both. She walks with Kristoff, leaning in close to him, her manner softer than usual even as Kristoff’s smile is a little silly, his eyes a little dazed as he looks upon his wife, a few drinks in himself. Victor walks in last of all, a woman with him, her hair a rich brown as it falls upon her shoulders, her blush a richer red as Victor takes her hand to press a kiss to the back of it.

Killian watches as Emma smiles again at something Elsa says, both of them glancing back at Victor and his companion, their words too soft to be heard anymore, their smiles too intimate. He wonders then if he should intrude, even as his heart yearns for him to hear her voice speak to him once more.

He has not seen her since that day at the station. His last glimpse of her behind steam and a passing train had run through his mind again and again as he had started from his home to go to their park, only to stop him as it reminded him that he was to go away soon, that he may not come back, that he could allow himself to feel this way, _any_ way about her.

But now as he sees her, all of his arguments with himself seem moot. He is helpless to resist wanting to be closer to her. In whatever way she may allow it.

“Captain Jones!”

Caught in his gaze at Emma, he hadn’t noticed Victor walk up to him, the blond man’s hand on his shoulder as he holds out the other to shake Killian’s hand.

“Merry Christmas! It’s fantastic to see you up and about!”

Killian stumbles for a moment, pulled out from his thoughts sharply by Victor’s wide smile, his waiting hand, his companion standing behind him watching Killian curiously, her eyes drifting from his head to his toes, finally stopping at his injured arm before coming up again, that familiar pity running through them.

Ignoring the flush that begins to burn at his cheeks, that even more familiar but no less conflicting mix of anger and shame running though him, Killian takes Victor’s hand.

“Merry Christmas, Doctor.”

He is glad that his voice does not betray him.

“Not tonight, Captain. I am merely Victor, a man who is happy to have met a friend on Christmas Eve.”

His voice rings with simple, good natured camaraderie and Killian cannot help but return his smile.

“Alright then I shall be merely Killian tonight as--”

“Captain Jones! How lovely to see you!”

Anna interrupts him, his words tapering away into nothing as she breaks away from Kristoff, his arm reaching for her even as she reaches for Emma instead. Emma who has seen him now, her eyes wide, her face unreadable as Anna pulls her to where Killian sits by the bar.

“Emma, look! Captain Jones is here!”

Victor watches on, a bemused smirk playing upon his lips now. But, Killian can’t seem to look away from Emma. Her coat is open where she has begun to unbutton it, revealing a sliver of the dress she wears beneath. No longer clad in her uniform, blue and white cloaking her in the professional line that lay between them, she shimmers as she walks. Her dress sways in the confines of her coat, catching the light from the lanterns in the pub and glowing a soft peach and gold.

His eyes come back up to meet hers. But it is only for a moment. She looks away quickly, her fingers fidgeting with her coat, softly pulling it closed and letting it go. They get closer, Anna’s hand yet coaxing her towards him, her hand sinking into her pockets now, eyes finally meeting his as she stands before him.

Anna and Victor conveniently slip away, leaving him sitting still at the stool by the bar, Emma now standing beside him.

He must make quite the sight, he thinks, for the smallest smile curves at her lips. One corner quirking up even as her eyebrow follows suit. Perhaps at his vaguely slack-jawed expression, perhaps at the idea that it had taken but a glimpse of her to do this. But the smiles fades quickly, her face falling back into something he finds himself unable to read clearly, something that lies in the space between her withdrawing smile and the way her eyes close to him.

“How have you been Captain?”

“I-- I’ve been well, thank you Miss Swan. What--” he stumbles over his words as he speaks, feeling acutely the shift between them, the distance that he had put there himself, “What brings you here?”

“Just a little time with friends before I go home,” she glances around him, not holding his eyes for too long and he hates the uncomfortable space between them now, the shadow of her hand on his as they had sat on a bench in the park not a week ago suddenly burning hot on his skin. Even as a voice inside him tells him that it is for the best.

An ache pulls at his heart as he steps off his seat, standing in front of her now, closer than before, his fingers itching for her even as unsure breaths and stuttered words run thick between them.

“And you, Captain? You’re not with family tonight?”

“No family to speak of, Miss Swan.”

His voice is a thread as he speaks. Her wandering eyes stop and come back to meet his then, wide with something like concern, like pity perhaps. But it does not burn like it usually does.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I forgot that-- I’m sorry.”

“Quite alright, Miss. I find I’m getting used to it,” he says as an almost bitter smile, the easiest kind, curves his lips. She sways almost imperceptibly closer, her hand rising and falling by her side and his voice only softens and falls further, wanting somehow to preserve this-- whatever this is between them.

“How about you? How’s the hospital been? And your lad?”

Her eyes brighten as she responds, her smile growing bigger as she speaks.

“The hospital is covered in lights and trees. The soldiers are singing and it was _wonderful_ to hear them happy.”

His own smile is about as big as hers, his heart singing as she speaks, her joy shimmering through her like the shine of her dress.

“Henry’s been well. He got me flowers this morning--buttercups--” she laughs and shakes her head, wisps of gold swaying around her face as she does, “said it was an apology and a Christmas gift.”

Her eyes meet his then.

“I haven’t had the chance to thank you Captain. For talking to him. I appreciate it.”

“I-- of course, Miss Swan. It was nothing, truly.”

“All the same. I am grateful.”

“Hey lovebirds, can I get you something to drink?”

Leroy’s voice pulls them out of their gaze upon one another, a rich blush immediately flooding Emma’s cheeks as she turns to him, a frown pulling at her brow, her lips ready to rebuke. But, when she sees the huge woolen hat that someone had rested on Leroy’s head, a large blue flower knitted into the edge of it falling into his eyes, her words turn into a laugh that twinkles through the crowded room.

“I’m alright, Leroy. Thank you.”

Killian’s own bemused chuckle escapes him, her bright eyes meeting his as she turns back around.

“Would you like to--”

“I should go--”

They begin speaking at the same time, stopping abruptly before she continues.

“I should get back.”

“Of course, Miss Swan. It was nice seeing you.”

He tries not to let the disappointment curling around his words show too much.

“Nice seeing you too.”

A soft smile, a rush of roses as she brushes past him and then she is gone. The song on the piano picks up into a cheery tune as he sighs and takes his seat once more, his hand reaching for his drink.

“When do you ship out, Captain?”

Her voice startles him, coming from over his shoulder.

“Sorry, I--”

“No, it’s quite alright Miss Swan.”

He grins wide and turns around on the stool to face her, a silly, boyish joy bubbling up within him as he sees that she has come back to speak to him again.

“In about a week and a half from tonight. The front awaits.”

Even as the reason for which she had come back fades the smile on his face, the joy in his heart a little, he lets himself enjoy the time he is being allowed with her, his yellow paint stained fingers yearning to reach for her again.

But there is a knit in her brow, a look in her eye that gives him pause. A clench of her fingers when he mentions the front--

And he remembers.

_“Casualty Clearing Station.”_

A little moment from before; before he knew that her smile starts with her eyes, sloping slowing down to the curve of her lips, before he knew that her hair slips out from under her scarf each day no matter how many pins she uses, before he knew what colours made the exact green of her eyes.

“I’m sure it does.”

She quirks her lips in his favourite bitter smile as she speaks, her own loss ringing through her eyes. More than ever his fingers itch to hold hers.

"To Victory."

His voice rings hollow, the bitterness in her smile creeping into his words as he raises a mocking glass, placing it back on the bar without taking a sip.

She chuckles softly in response.

"To Victory."

It is quiet for a moment between them. Even as the music continues behind them, even as the crests and valleys of conversation move about them, they stay caught in a strange moment of sardonic solidarity.

Her smile fades then, her brow furrowing as she speaks.

“Take Care, Captain. On the front, I mean.”

Her voice is mocking no more, ringing with sincerity instead, her eyes looking between his own, concern shining through in the way she begins to lean into him.

And it takes his breath away, surprising him in a way that she has made a habit of doing.

But it is the finality of her words, the way her tone signals the end of their conversation, the step back she takes that puts him back into motion. His feet hitting the floor as he stands up, taking one step towards her as she begins to turn away.

He is the one unready to let her go this time, unwilling to let the moment between them end, unwilling to have this be the last time that he sees her before he goes away on what may be his last journey.

The music picks up as though sensing his desperation, quickly changing into a song he recognises. The piano keys playing out a cheerful tune that brings a slow smile to his face as it rises and falls in a melody that is rapid, joyful. Just on the edge of silly.

And emboldened by the concern in her eyes, by some fatalistic urge, he calls out behind her.

“Miss Swan! Care to dance?”

* * *

“What?”

Her voice comes out sharper than she intends, turning back around to face the man she had just said goodbye to, her heart lost somewhere in a sea of almosts, her mind yet tumultuous, trying to find a way to step back, to stop herself from _feeling_ as much as she does for him and now he’s--

“What?”

There is a grin on his face that widens as she she repeats herself, as he takes a step toward her, his hand outstretched even as his other arm hides behind his back, his spine straight, his eyes dancing with something she cannot name.

Something joyful, something mischievous, something hopeful.

“Would you do me the honour of a dance?”

He repeats himself too, closer now, his hand within her reach should she choose to take it.

The refusal lies at the tip of her tongue, a practised motion that is more instinct than intent. She has a son. She does not dance with men in pubs on Christmas.

(No matter that for once, she actually wants to.)

But as she studies his face, she sees a glimpse of something she has seen before. In different eyes, in younger faces. In the way that the youngest soldiers in their hospital beds press shaky, ardent kisses upon their lovers’ knuckles when they know they are go back to the front soon. In hugs hello, pressed together from shoulder to toes, uncaring of injuries and pain. In hugs goodbye, fingers clutching at clothes, knuckles white in their grips.

She wonders if he feels it too. That urgent desperation of needing to hold on what little you have before it is taken away from you.

Her eyes find his fingers, stained in their ever present splashes of yellow and she wonders if she does not feel it too.

She takes his hand.

  
She says yes.

* * *

For a moment, he does not move.

He doesn’t expect her to say yes though he hopes for it. He doesn’t expect her to take his hand, her skin touching his for the first time though he has been thinking of nothing else since she had walked up to him.

He doesn’t expect it to feel like a spark of something shooting up his spine, a warmth radiating from her fingers wrapped around his, running up his arm and burning through his cheeks.

He doesn’t expect it and he almost forgets to grasp her hand back.

But before he can complete the motion, her fingers slip from between his, the warmth instantly gone.

“Sorry, I just need to--”

She turns away from him and for a second he thinks that she has changed her mind but then he catches the first glimpse of the back of her neck.

Her coat falls behind her as she pulls first one arm out and then the other, the back of her dress dipping just slightly, the line of her spine a soft curve that calls for him to run the back of his fingers along it. Just below, the fabric of her dress shimmers softly in the dim light of the pub, a peach and gold haze that seems to surround her when she turns back around to face him.

The skirt of her dress sways and ripples as she moves, walking just past him to hang her coat on top of his on the back of his stool. A sheer layer of fabric with little jewels woven through it lies on top of a satin layer that hugs her above the waist but flows freely below.

She comes around to face him and he sees her as though in a painting. The blur of the crowd behind her and she apart, the lone source of light in the picture, glowing, shining in her glittering dress.

A dress perfect for dancing.

“Well Captain?”

He is pulled out of his lost gaze by her voice, her smile is tentative, careful as she offers her hand to him this time.

He wastes no time in taking it.

* * *

His fingers close around hers a second time, strong and soft, the rings that he wears cold against her skin where they had only ever met her gloves before.

And it feels like too much. Too much heat, too much touch, too much him.

But when the light of the lantern catches on the smudge of green upon his wrist as he turns her hand, as she looks up to meet his smiling eyes, she cannot help but return it with a grin of her own.

_You’ve just got to look for the moments._

“I must confess Captain. I am not usually one for dancing.”

Her voice comes out rougher than she intends, her mind and her heart just a little out of sync but falling into a rhythm as they make their way to the makeshift dance floor.

“I am flattered that you would make an exception for me, milady.”

He’s lowered his head to meet her eyes, his breath soft upon her neck as he leans closer to speak over the music.

“Besides, all you need is a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

She looks up to find him smiling down at her, crinkles around his eyes, biting his lower lip, he looks younger than she has ever seen him. Her eyes fall to his lips ignoring the warning bells that ring through her, swaying her closer to him. Closer than she intends.

Her mind finally gives in as she thinks a quiet thought that seems to echo through her anyway.

_God, but I could kiss him._

* * *

Their first steps on the floor are shy, a turn from the comfort of a few moments ago.

Her hand is clasped in his, his arm wrapped around her waist loosely, trying his best not to touch but just to guide, her other hand a feather touch on his shoulder. The music continues in its own dance, hopping, skipping and jumping through the melody.

“Ready, Miss Swan?”

She moves her gaze from upon her hand on his shoulder to his eyes, her own a little too wide as she takes a quick sweep of the room, watching the other dancers move across the floor before turning back to him.

“I--sure.”

“Alright, just follow along now--”

One step, two step, three. They move through the floor in a pattern of their own as he steps backwards to the melody, Emma following along. Though she misses a step or two at first, her eyes peeled on her own feet as she tries to keep up, she picks up on the rhythm soon enough. Her eyes rising up to meet his in a triumphant grin.

He cannot help the chuckle that escapes him, as though bubbling out from his heart.

“Seems you’re quite the natural, milady.”

Another smile curves her lips and his heart skips another beat.

The music gets faster behind them and he sees the other couples quicken their steps, the laughter ringing out on the floor getting louder as partners begin to stumble into one another, uncaring of their mistakes, just happy to be a little closer.

And suddenly he remembers a sunny afternoon spent at home when Liam had come home from his first tour in the Royal Navy. The excited voice in which he had told him all about the beautiful girl at the French port who had taught him how to dance. Among other things.

The muffled laughter and aching ribs that followed Liam’s attempt at showing Killian a move involving spinning him in a loop, trying to get his feet to lift off the ground, only to fail miserably, causing for the two of them to fall in a heap of arms and limbs.

And suddenly he is brave.

“Miss Swan, do you trust me?”

* * *

The question takes her off guard, her hand upon his shoulder tightening as she feels the fabric beneath, smooth under her fingers. Wrinkles in the vest spread from her grip and she can almost feel the muscles in his shoulder.

Her hand in his closes just a fraction tighter around his before loosening, as though getting ready to drop it, getting ready to run.

But he is smiling at her.

His eyebrows raised as his mouth stretches into a grin that makes dimples appear in his cheeks, his eyes almost twinkling and she realises then that she knows his smile. She knows the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, the rumble in his chest when he laughs, the way his hair flops into his eyes when he is bent over his notebook.

She realises then that she knows _this_ smile. The one where the blue of his eyes seems translucent, an almost childlike joy peeking out from behind them. The one that he smiles when he sees her in the park, when he makes her laugh after a hard day.

She realises then that this man who had been naught but a patient a few weeks ago, now has a smile that is just for her.

He leans just a little closer, the smile falling away longer she doesn’t respond.  His arm around her presses just a little closer, their steps beginning to slow until they are all but shuffling along the dance floor.

The warmth of the touch against the thin fabric of her dress sends a jolt up her spine, her body freezing for a moment before relaxing into his hold.

But he must feel her tense for just as soon as the touch is there, it is gone. His arm pulled away to a safe distance once more, his smile falling away from his eyes.

“Apologies, I--”

He begins to speak, pulling his arm away further. His brows now knitting together in a frown, their feet coming to a stop in the corner of the dance floor, the music going on without them.

She realises then that she knows the feel of his skin against hers.

And that she longs to know it once more.

Her hand on his shoulder reaches behind her to hold his wrist. She ignores his sharp intake of breath at her touch and pulls his arm snug around her waist, the warmth at her lower back once more, spreading softly across her skin.

“I do. I trust you.”

The song changes and his smile is back once more. Perhaps even more radiant than before and she almost doesn’t hear his soft whisper--

_Hold on, Miss Swan._

\--over the singular feeling that has begun to command her being.

Her eyes fall to his lips even as she licks her own, her throat suddenly dry.

And then she is--

* * *

\--flying, her hair a haze of gold, her laughter like seafoam on a light breeze. Her hands hold on tighter to him as he turns, her feet just lifting off the floor.

She is in his arms once more as she comes down, as he leans back, the weight of his body on his heels to keep their balance. Her chin lands on his shoulder, her breath hot against his neck as she laughs, her chest pressed against his. She pulls away far too soon, their steps continuing on, keeping in time with the music as they move.

She has gotten better now, her feet moving quickly with his as they weave in between the other couples on the floor even as the shadow of her breathless laughter remains on her lips, curved softly, her eyes brighter than he has ever seem them and he cannot help but pull her closer.

Just a little.

Almost not at all.

But she comes to him anyway, her hands soft in his as she-

* * *

\--spins and twirls, her dress soft against her legs as she moves, the earth as though a cloud, her feet never staying on it long enough to find out.

Her breath comes fast, stuttered between laughter and sharp bursts of giggles every time they turn a corner just a little too quickly. The world blurs around her, his face and his eyes and his smile are all that fills her vision.

Her mind having given up pulling her heart back long ago, she lets herself sway closer and closer into his embrace. His is arm now hooked around her waist, their hands locked together as they--

* * *

\--step and turn and twist across the floor.

Her body is far too close to his to be proper, his smile almost pressing against her cheek, their feet barely apart as they take one step then another, him following her and her following him in turns.

The song begins to race ahead once more, her eyes wide she meets his. His eyebrows rise, a little dance of their own on his forehead before their steps quicken once more.

His feet feeling as though they are--

* * *

\--hovering off the ground.

Faster and faster, her heels leaving the floor as she rises on her toes, barely touching the earth before moving once more. Faster and faster until her laughter is lost in the rush of their steps, in the rumble of his chuckles.

Faster and faster until she is--

* * *

\--flying once more.

He knows the song is about to end and perhaps his time with her as well. He knows this somewhere deep inside, behind the rush of holding her, behind the wonder of her hand taking his injured wrist without question, behind the joy of hearing her laugh.

He knows it is about to end but he cannot bring himself to care when her hair floats about her face as they spin, when her smile and her dress outshine everything else he has ever seen, when her lips form his name as she--

* * *

\--comes back down to him.

“Captain Jones!”

She rushes toward the ground too quickly, just a little out of balance, her heartbeat racing towards him, her body falling into his, her hand leaving his shoulder and curling around his neck instead. His pulse jumps beneath her thumb, his arm around her waist pulling her closer to keep her steady and--

* * *

“Miss Swan, are you alright?”

“I’m ok. That was--”

He imagines his cheeks will be sore soon from all this smiling.

“Aye.”

Perhaps hers will be too.

The song begins to slow again, their steps slowing in turn. He does not know if he is imagining it. If it is a part of this fever dream, the world glowing at its edges for him but her fingers are running up and down his neck, her thumb--

* * *

\--following the rhythm of his pulse.

He is warm under her touch, his heartbeat racing even as their feet barely move. The music slowing and softening, his smile softening too. Her eyes flicker lazily across his face as they dance, her hand in his falling lower against their sides.

She is lost in the haze of the music and the warmth of the pub, lost in the translucence of his eyes, in the dream conjured by his smile. She is drowning in this nebulous in between, where the war is a half forgotten memory and--

* * *

\--the future lies in the radiance of her laugh.

But the music does not wait and he finds himself clinging on to the moment with a quiet desperation, his steps slowing more and more, his eyes tracing the curves of her face, memorising the patterns that dance across her features from the lanterns in the pub, learning the curve of her waist, the feel of her fingers in his.

He holds on but it is not enough and just like that the music suddenly--

* * *

\--stops.

* * *

Or perhaps it had slowed and faded away but she had not been paying attention.

But, the song ends and the rest of the world comes rushing back.

Applause echoes through the pub, people standing to cheer for the pianist, requesting an encore but it is all muffled to her ears. The space between them feels far too small now, her skin burning wherever he touches, her cheeks flushing as her eyes remain locked on his.

It feels deliberate now, this closeness. His body too solid, her touch too sure. It feels chosen, no longer hidden behind the pretense of dancing and suddenly it feels too much.

But the heart knows no reason and her eyes fall to his lips once more.

* * *

He is holding his breath or perhaps it is her who has stolen it away.

But as she stands there unmoving, her arms curled around him, her feet against his, her body aligned with his, he dares not breath lest she might stop. He dares not move lest she might leave him.

He dares not speak lest this moment ends between them.

But her eyes fall to his lips, her tongue darting out to lick her own as she sways infinitesimally closer.

“Em--”

Her name lies at the tip of his tongue, his voice low, meant only for the space that lies between them but before he can finish, before he can lean close enough to know what happens next--

“Emma!”

Anna’s voice breaks the spell that lies upon them, the blanket that had been diffusing the light and softening the sounds of the world is jerked off their shoulders. She drops his hand immediately, a rush of cold taking place of her touch. His arm left floating up towards her as though reaching for her before falling to his side, his thumb rubbing circles against his fingers, feeling the loss of her through to his bones.

“That was incredible! I didn’t know you could dance!”

Anna comes to a stop beside Emma, her voice just this side of slurred as she continues to speak.

“And Captain Jones too! Who knew?”

Emma’s eyes dart back at him, even as he stiffens just a little under Anna's gaze, his injured arm hidden behind his back once more.

“You two look wonderful together--”

Anna continues speaking, uncaring or perhaps unknowing of the way Emma is now clenching her fists, her eyes growing wide, her body coiling tight as though preparing to run. He flashes a soft smile at Emma, lowering his head, hoping to catch her eyes. But, she looks away from him, eyes looking around and behind him instead.

He feels himself slumping as he watches her walls going back up as surely as she was placing the bricks there herself. One by one.

“Thank you Anna. I-- just need some air. It’s getting too warm in here.”

She doesn’t look at him again, turning around sharply and walking back towards his stool where her coat lay draped on top of his. He makes to follow but before he can catch up, his coat falls heavily to the ground as she sweeps her blue one into her arms.

And with a flash of a cold breeze and tinkling bell, she is gone.

* * *

The stars are too bright tonight.

Shining through the usual smog that surrounds London, they seem to watch her as she steps out of the pub. Her coat thrown about her shoulders, shivering slightly, she tries to rub away the goosebumps on her arms caused by the sudden onslaught of the cold air outside.

The reality that Anna’s voice had catapulted in her general direction; the cold brings it crashing down and suddenly all the things she had chosen to forget, as she had allowed herself to be led by the hand by a man who made her laugh, come back to her in a rush of feeling.

Her patched up heart beats faster as though finally realising how close it had been to breaking again. She is a mother. She is a daughter. She is a volunteer in the greatest war ever fought.

And he?

He is to leave her.

She squeezes her eyes shut, her arms wrapping tighter around herself as she tries to banish the images of his smile and the sound of her own laughter echoing in her ears as the music in the pub starts up again, filtering through to her ears in a muffled melody.

It had been so easy to fall after that first time that he had lifted her off the ground. Frighteningly easy to let herself be led by the music, to do something for no reason except that she had wanted to.

Some half mad part of her feels like the young girl she had never really been. Her stomach doing flips as her heart races, waiting, hoping for him to come looking for her. But the other half, the half that has been hurt before, that has been left before--again and again and again-- wishes that she had never let herself dance.

She isn’t sure which feeling is worse.

The bell tinkles softly behind her, the door creaking open softly and her breath stops. Her heart in her throat as she wonders if--

“Emma?”

No. No, the voice was wrong. Not as smooth, not as rich, not--

“Emma, are you alright?”

A deep breath and she turns around to face him.

“Lieutenant Walsh? What are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes, historical or otherwise:
> 
> In this chapter,
> 
> Training Camps were often run by veterans as most capable soldiers were required in France on the actual front. They were often over 60 years old. The camps were never really very well equipped, too many soldiers to clothe and not enough fabric. 
> 
> Soldiers usually got their uniforms after training but for the purposes of this story and because poetic license I had the boys on Henry’s platform already in their uniforms. 
> 
> You can read the Daily Telegraph for December 24th 1915 on their website. There is a tiny article about how hospitals had trees and carols :)
> 
> The dance that Killian and Emma are attempting to do is The Castle Walk and it is the most adorable thing I have ever seen. 
> 
> Other popular dances during the time were the Waltz, The Tango and my favourite, The Grizzly Bear where you stick your hands up, fingers splayed like claws and sort of lock your neck with your partner and hop a little. It is fantastic and I am in favour of a resurgence of the Animal Dances :D
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and sticking around! I would love love to hear what you think of the story so far and appreciate your comments and reviews so very much! Thank you! <3


	10. Gold

_London, England_

_Winter, 1915_

“Happy Christmas, Emma.”

Walsh stands against the bright light of the pub as it streams out from behind the small glass window on the door. Most of his face lies in shadow except for where the light from a nearby street lamp hits it, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks, the sharpness of his cheekbones. Caught off guard by his presence, by the almost smug smile that curls his lips as he watches her collect herself, Emma’s voice is a mumble as she summons a response.

“And you, Lieutenant.”

A rush of warmth blows over them as the front door to the pub opens and closes, a flash of music and conversation slipping through. Her eyes follow the light even as she takes a deep breath, pulling herself away from her still tumbling thoughts to bring herself back, tearing her eyes away to look at Walsh once more.

“What brings you here tonight?”

She repeats herself from earlier, her voice stronger now as she watches him. His own eyes falling quickly to the door of the bar and back again.

“Well, I saw you with Captain Jones,” he says, his lips curling into distaste as he speaks his name, “and you looked--”

A pause as he tries to find the word.

“--distressed. I had to come to your rescue now didn’t I?”

The smile returns, his teeth glinting in the glow of the street lamp, his face in shadow against the light of the pub behind him.

“I don’t need--”

“It’s surprising they let men like that into the navy, let alone allow them to walk the streets. I mean, he all but murdered that poor woman. Leave alone the adultery. Such a sad--”

He must see the surprise on Emma’s face, the curl of his smile growing wider still as he takes a step closer. 

“Surely he’s told you Emma. You seem to be on such good terms.”

Emma bristles at his words, her momentary surprise abandoned in favour of anger. But again, he doesn’t let her speak, taking another step closer as he continues, his smile dropping even as his voice drips of insincerity.

“The Admiral’s wife and the art tutor? Surely you must have heard the whispers? It was quite the scandal.”

And suddenly Emma feels as though she has been shaken awake, torn away from a dream. The light from the pub looking dimmer now, Walsh’s face coming into clearer focus, memories coming back to her in a rush.

Of course, she’d heard. 

It had been such a scandal that even her mother, who tends to distance herself from gossip, had commented upon the affair. The Admiral’s wife cheating on her husband with her painting tutor, him only finding out about the affair on her deathbed when she had died in her illicit lover’s arms. 

She remembers her father’s voice asking if it had been anyone they knew.

_“Not well. I’ve only ever heard of the Admiral through mutual friends but it’s a terrible thing isn’t it? To lose your wife like that, and just after finding out that she’d been unfaithful.”_

She remembers one of the girls who volunteered at her mother’s orphanage whispering about how the tutor--

_“Something, something Jones. I forget his name but, he’s gone and joined the navy can you believe? Good way to run away from it all I suppose.”_

It had died down eventually, forgotten in favour of the next scandal. But Emma still remembers her distaste at all the talk that had gone on around her about the tragedy of this family. She tries to tie together the image of the man in the stories with the man who had just taken her in his arms and led her around the dance floor, who had told her so many truths and never a lie, who had made her laugh, made her hope on dark nights and darker mornings.

They do not fit, incongruous with one another and she--

“Emma? Are you alright?”

Walsh is still looking at her, his smile creeping back onto his face again, victory in his eyes as he realises that he’s got her.

“I don’t put much stock in gossip, Lieutenant.”

A deep breath as she looks behind her, glancing down the road before continuing.

“I will take your leave now. It’s quite late and I have to get home.”

“Of course.”

She is glad he does not push further but his smile does not fade even as she wishes him goodnight and walks away, her mind churning anew.

* * *

She feels like she is floating on the way to the station, her mind running over and over again through the words that Walsh had said, through the stories she had heard about Captain Jones, through the man she knew him to be.

Or the man she thought she knew him to be.

The wind is colder, the stars somehow dimmer now. They seem swallowed by the fog that lies over the city and she turns her eyes away from the sky to look straight ahead instead, pulling her coat tighter around herself.

In the midst of all the thoughts that run rampant in her mind, one is louder than the rest. A piercing scream of a thought that only gets louder as she walks.

She had let _Henry_ speak to him. Henry, who she has always protected from anything and everything that could touch him, that could hurt him. Henry, who is her entire world and more. Henry, who had asked this morning if Captain Jones was doing well before going to school. 

(Before going to school and actually staying there for once.)

She had let him get too close.

She knows that _all_ of the gossip is certainly not true and she knows that there is probably more to the story, perhaps even in a way that it may vindicate him. 

She knows that her judgement of this man cannot be this _wrong_. 

She knows.

But, he is to go to war, perhaps never to return. 

And she cannot take the chance that she might be wrong about him.

The winds floats through her hair, biting at her ears, her cheeks as she ducks into the warmth of the train station, doing what she has always been good at.

Walking away.

* * *

“Emma?”

Branches shake softly in the breeze, unaffected by the biting chill that has taken over their home. A thin layer of snow coats everything, making wet crunches under her feet as she follows her father into his garden. Her hands are tucked into her coat sleeves, searching for warmth despite the thick gloves she wears, despite the hat pulled low over her head.

It was a rare day that she didn’t have to go to the hospital and her father had insisted that she spend some time with him. She was happy to agree, smiling now as he bends to inspect a lone blooming rose in the quiet, barren bushes that line the edge of the garden. He settles onto his knees, his hands pale as they cradle the petals, brushing snow off them. 

Her father has always been someone who nurtures, grows, builds. He’d told her one evening as they’d sat by the fire, trying to learn each other's’ stories from before they’d found one another, that he used to be a builder before he’d stumbled upon his accidental fortune.

Building houses for a living had been his trade and when he found that he could not do that anymore with the estate to run, he had instead turned to the garden. Growing and building there instead.

The war had no place for a man with a soul like his, when all it wanted to do was destroy.

Though the cold is a harsh reminder of the real world, nipping at her skin, she soon finds herself lost somewhere in the deep red of the flower as her father works. Her eyes are unfocused as her mind yet wanders, going back again to Christmas eve and the last time she’d seen Captain Jones.

It’s been three days since that night when she had stubbornly pushed all thoughts of sparkling blue eyes and warm smiles to the furthest corners of mind, locking them away for Henry’s sake.

(Perhaps for her own heart’s sake as well. Her heart that had begun to soften for him.)

But despite her best efforts, he comes back to her in the oddest of moments, lurking in the back of her mind, waiting to make himself known. 

And suddenly, she finds herself entertaining the thought of how he would love this scene. If he’d want to sketch the curves of the flower’s petals, colour in the rich red sprinkled with white. If he’d look at her and--

“Emma, are you alright?”

“I-- I’m alright. Sorry, dad.”

He tilts his head to the side, searching her eyes for the truth but she smiles at him. Almost completely genuine. Her heart warming at how his fingers brush softly against the petals of the rose, his hand no doubt freezing but unwilling to touch the bloom with anything but the softest of hands.

He seems to be satisfied by her non-answer, ready to leave it alone for now as his own smile returns, his eyes going back to the flower.

“It’s surprising, the things that grow in the winter. The hardiest plants are often the most beautiful don’t you think?”

He looks back at Emma as he finishes speaking, eyes pointed as his eyebrows rise.

And she can’t help but chuckle, rolling her eyes as she meets his sparkling ones.

“Yes, dad.”

He lets go of the flower and stands.

“Are you sure you’re ok?”

* * *

“I’m fine, mom.”

The words leave her lips without thinking, an instinct at this point. Six days now since she had seen Captain Jones. Six days since he had told her that he was to leave inside of a week. Six days since her mind had only grown more and more preoccupied as she got closer to the day that he would be gone.

“Just wondering is all.”

Her mother walks up behind her, nursing a glass of wine as she looks upon the rest of the party from beside Emma. People mill around in beautiful clothes, drinking, eating, hoping that this will be their last Christmas spent away from their sons, their daughters, their husbands and wives. The last Christmas spent under the dark cloud of war.

She looks back at her mother with a small smile, taking a small sip of her own wine before saying again.

“I’m alright, I promise. Just a little out of sorts. We had a convoy come in yesterday.”

Her eyes squeeze shut as she remembers. Though she was no longer a stranger to the screams and the blood, last night had been different. So close to Christmas and thoughts of him following her to her work, her hands had paused, bandage in hand, frozen when she had heard one of the doctors shouting behind her--

_“Jones, stay with me! Come on!”_

Her blood had run cold, a shout of her name by her ear pulling her out of her daze, making her hands move once more as she had continued wrapping up the leg of the boy who lay in front of her.

“Oh, Emma--”

Her mother’s voice is soft, her fingers wrapping in a caress around her wrist as she squeezes it before coming to stand in front of her.

“Here’s hoping the new year brings an end to all this.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Their glasses clink and Emma lets out a small wish into the universe, allowing herself to think of him, hoping that he will come back home safe.

“Happy New Year, Emma.”

* * *

“And you, Elsa.”

Emma stands by the reception at the hospital, picking up her duty list for the day, her head bowed over the clipboard as Elsa enters, pulling off her gloves and hat and walking closer. It is the first time that she is seeing her good friend in the new year and yet the smile on her face is more forced than anything. A flash of teeth and barely softened eyes before she turns back to the list in her hands, detailing the rooms and patients she would have to look over during her shift today.

“Emma, are you alright?”

She jerks up, furrowing her brow even as a rush of irritation surges through her.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that? I’m fine!”

“Alright, alright.” 

Elsa’s hands go up in a placating gesture before she drops her shoulders in defeat.

“I just-- your mother was worried. She said that you get lost a lot these days.”

“I’m fine.”

Her voice is sharp, her tone curt, signalling the end of the conversation and though she knows she is being unfair to Elsa--most of her anger truly directed at herself-- she does not think she has the energy or the courage to explain why she finds herself lost in thought so often these days.

“I’m sure you are. Just a little pricklier than usual, I suppose.”

Elsa grins, her hand brushing across Emma’s shoulders as she walks away, the warmth of the gesture softening the pointedness of her words and though she has said them a thousand times before--always in jest or to tease her-- today they sting.

It has been a little over a week now since she had left him at the pub without a word. She wonders now what he’d thought of her. Dancing with him, smiling with him, allowing him to make her laugh, allowing him to hold her and then walking away without so much as a Merry Christmas. 

She shrugs it off, her shoulders shaking as she turns, physically trying to walk away from her thoughts but they are persistent bastards, following her about her day as she makes her rounds about the wards.

The soldiers are quieter than usual, the celebrations of Christmas and the New Year giving way to more of the same. Though the year had changed, the war had not. Skirmishes continued along the various fronts and the men were expected to defend them. No matter that most of them were too tired to do anything but sleep, no matter that though their bodies had healed, their minds and hearts were yet broken.

No matter that they were hurting inside.

As long as they could hold a gun and shoot it, back they went.

“I swear, Miss Swan. I’m not healed yet, the arm still hurts like a--”

“I’m sorry, Tom. I have to. I hope you understand.”

A young thing of 18, Tom had been treated for a bullet to his arm and though they’d first thought that he might lose it, the doctors had managed to save it. Now mostly whole and ready once more to fight, he hangs his head as she stands. She makes a mark on her clipboard to have the doctor clear Tom for discharge even as her heart aches to do it.

“Thank you though, Miss Swan. For taking care of me.”

His voice is a quiet thing, a mumble as he looks back up at her again. 

“I hope you know, I’m not a coward or anything. I just--miss home and--my mam and--”

His voice cracks as he speaks and she has to swallow the lump in her throat, blink away the shine in her eyes as she goes back to him, taking his hand in hers.

“Good luck and stay safe out there, okay?”

He only nods in response.

Her heart rests heavy in her chest as she continues her rounds. Watching man after man after man, lying in rows upon the beds that line the hospital walls, their stories paused or stopped completely as they give their lives to this battle. 

She is walking slowly past the exam room when her thoughts drift again, drift inevitably to the man with the paint stained fingers. 

Though she knows that he has been in the war before and survived, all she can think of are those fingers forever stained in colour, that smile that revealed his dimples every time he saw her, those eyes that looked far too young when he did.

And again, as she has been doing far too often lately, she sends a little wish out into the world, hoping that he is alright.

“Hey, Emma?”

* * *

“Yes?”

She sits at the dining table, tea cup in hand as she watches Henry get ready for school. His back is turned as he packs, trying to stuff a notebook that is definitely one notebook too many for the small bag, pushing down on it as he speaks to her.

“Has Captain Jones gone back to fight?”

His name takes her by surprise, her tea sloshing in her cup as she lowers it mid sip.

“What?”

“Captain Jones. You said before that he was going to go back to fight, or to the front or something. Is he gone already?”

She puts her tea cup on the table and begins to stand, the chair making a scratchy sound against the wood of the floor as she pushes it back. Sunlight streams in through the open window in their dining room, reflecting a ring of light off of Henry’s bent head and her voice teeters dangerously on the edge of calm as she responds.

“Why do you ask?”

Henry turns around then, rolling his eyes at her in a way that is so very familiar, her heart clenching even as a smile blossoms on her face. He bends again to tie the laces on his shoes, his hair flopping onto his forehead as he does.

(Her son he was, _hers_.)

“Just wondering if he was alright.”

“I’m sure he is.”

Henry frowns at her tone, his eyes glancing at her for a moment before looking back down to his shoes.

“You haven’t spoken to him? I thought you were friends?”

He was definitely her son, catching her in a lie she hadn’t even fully articulated for herself. Her smile fades a little but doesn’t disappear even as she finds herself deflecting, her heart yelling at her in triumph. 

This is why we don’t let people get close. This is why. They leave and then Henry asks if they’re alright.

“We are, I just-- haven’t had the time.”

It is not the best of lies but he is quickly running late for school and perhaps it will do.

“Ok, but he’s leaving isn’t he? So shouldn’t we--”

She stops him in the middle of his sentence, her hands clapping together to punctuate her sentence as she picks up his bag and begins to shuffle him out the door.

“Alright, you’re getting late. Off to school with you!”

He drags his feet, his hand reaching back for his bag as he turns around to look at her.

“Okay, okay, I’m going!”

A pause as his hand reaches to take his bag from her, his eyes meeting hers almost directly. God, but he’s gotten so tall.

“Mom, are you sure you’re alright?”

And so grown up. Her hand finds his cheek, her fingers lightly brushing against the bare beginnings of scruff on his face.

“I’m alright. Promise.”

Her voice is steady, her smile real and in that moment she believes it.

“Okay, I’ll see you later. Love you!”

He presses a soft kiss to her cheek and just like that, he’s gone.

“Love you too."

* * *

 

It is easier to staunch the memory of him as time goes on. The disquiet that lives in her heart dims as a week passes, then two, then three. The world goes on and so does she. 

But, the war goes on too.

The relative lull of the past few months-- where all they had seen were skirmishes and minor pushes on the front-- builds back into the full frenzy of the war. The hospital is inundated with casualties, convoys coming in each day with a fresh group of men, their injuries getting progressively worse. The battered bodies give them a picture of the war as clear as any in the papers, events of the front evident in the way the men were hurt. 

“Shellfire last week,” says the leg of a man that has been blown away. “Sniper fire this time,” say the bullets trapped in the shoulder of another. 

Each time that the hospital receives another casualty convoy, Emma finds herself increasingly afraid that _he_ might be in one of them. Her heart on edge as she waits and waits, not knowing why she cares for him so, not knowing why it hurts when she considers the possibility that he might not return.

She stands outside the door to the Warren House today, her hand reaching for the knob but not touching it yet as she contemplates going inside. It had been a long day, a steady stream of injured soldiers had come through their doors starting midnight last night, her shift going well over 20 hours with a few hours of fitful sleep stolen away in the break room.

All she wants is a moment to breathe, to be alone in a crowd, to be somewhere she isn’t expected to be anyone, to save anyone. 

Somewhere she can hide. 

She reaches just a little further, glad that the street behind her is empty and nobody is here to watch her indecision. 

It has been a month or more since she has come to this door. Choosing instead to take a different way to the station on her way home, not coming in to have a chat with Leroy, declining Anna and Elsa’s invitations to get a drink after work. She’d like to believe that all her excuses of how tired she was were true, that all it was was coincidence but her heart is no fool and knows otherwise.

She tries to convince herself that the memories of that night and how she’d left him would not come back to her, that it had been long enough to blur them in her mind. But already her belly churns and  she’s just about to give up and walk away when the bell tinkles, the door beginning to push outwards as someone leaves. She takes a hasty step back, her hand dropping quickly to her side as she steps out of the way of the man leaving. 

A rush of familiar warmth and light streams out of the pub and instantly, her heart is calmer, her breath softer.

He is probably long gone, stationed somewhere in good old France, she thinks.

And she could really use a drink.

The sound of the little bell as she walks inside feels like a balm to her battered soul.

* * *

She steps in, hoping that she can convince Leroy to let her stay a little late tonight, hide in her usual spot until she has put herself back together enough to go home again. But before she can get to the bar, her hat in her hand, her other one trying to pull off her gloves, she hears it.

“Come on mate, don’t leave a man hanging! I’m going off to fight for King and bloody country tomorrow!”

His voice is audible over the hum of conversation in the pub, over the shouted cheers and clinking glasses, over the soft beginnings of a new song on the piano. A thump as he slams his glass against the countertop. Leroy’s voice is stern as he responds, his words too low for her to make out from her spot by the door where she yet stands, frozen in place.

But despite the noise, she can make out one word.

_Killian._

She swears that her heart stops beating for a moment, her eyes searching for his form along the bar, looking for the flop of black hair bent over a glass. But the pub is crowded tonight and the bar is hidden from her by a steady stream of people moving about the room, the blues and blacks and greys of their coats making it difficult for her to find him.

He's still here. 

Her mind is slowly catching up to what she's seeing. He's still here. He's not gone to the front yet even as she's been hoping each day that he'd be alright. And though she knows that it was probably just another delay, somehow it feels personal.

She begins to make her way to the bar, pushing through the crowd, her hat crushed in one hand and only one glove off. She finds him as soon as the bar comes into view, his hair trimmed short and his face clean shaven. He looks younger but somehow much older all at once. His eyes are glazed over, his hand yet raised towards Leroy as though hoping that the man would pour him another, his lips curved into a smirk. 

The bags under his eyes are dark, his fist clenching as he drops his hand, coming down on the table once more, his cocky smile dropping into a frown as soon as Leroy is out of sight, his eyes fixed on his empty glass instead. He picks it up and tilts his head back, trying perhaps to catch the last few drops of drink left.

A heaviness settles in her chest as she gets closer, her eyes caught on his fingers. Clutched around the empty glass still, she notices that he isn’t wearing his rings anymore. The little circles of silver that she’d seen, that she’d felt against her skin are gone. More signs of him lost to the uniform he would put on tomorrow. But more than that, what hits her hardest, what makes her want to reach out and grab those fingers and ask him to stay--

There is no paint on them. No green on his wrist, no yellow on the pad of his thumb. No trace left of the smiling man who painted her a starling to give her hope, no trace of the man who had held her hand and laughed as they’d danced in this very room.

It isn’t until she is standing right next to him that her heart pulls back. Her shock had turned into concern too soon, her fingers itching to hold his once more, her heart drawn to his somehow. Her concern falls quickly into anger, her cheeks burning red as though someone had caught her out, seen her thoughts written on her face.

“Leroy, mate, help a man out!”

His voice is lower now, defeat colouring his words as though he was just going through the motions.

(And despite all her attempts to the contrary, her heart twinges once more.)

Leroy does not return and she is close enough to smell the rum that wafts off him, as though he’d fallen into a vat of it. But now that she is here, she doesn’t know what to say. Her mouth opens and closes as she wavers between listening to the walls that rattle around her heart, that scream for her to turn around and walk away or taking him by the hand and asking him if he was alright. 

The universe makes the decision for her.

He sighs deeply as Leroy continues ignoring him, his head lowered. But when he rises again, he must spot her for he turns and meets her eyes. His own get comically wide for a moment, a smile beginning to blossom on his face before falling away, replaces quickly by a scowl.

“Miss Swan. Would you like me to go away as well?”

He punctuates her name with pauses, his lips no longer curving around the words with the softness she is used to but gritted out from between his teeth, as though he had bitten into something bitter.

He doesn’t wait for her answer, turning away immediately and continuing to speak, hand upon his glass once more.

“You know what? Perhaps it should be _you_ who should leave. It is you who does not desire my presence and I’ll be gone tomorrow anyway. Out of everyone’s hair. Good riddance to me.”

She almost takes a step back, the force, the bitter sadness that laces his words all but hitting her physically. His emotions somehow clouding her own tumult of feelings even more.

“Captain Jones, I--”

But where she seems to have lost all her words, he cannot help but speak.

“I assume that someone’s told you about Milah. Is that it? Because I’ve been thinking--”

The name is strange to her ears but his voice softens when he speaks it, curling carefully around the word and she instantly knows who he speaks of. He pauses a moment, turning to look at her, his eyes searching hers, his gaze softening the longer he looks, his voice lowering as he continues.

“--turning it over in my mind again and again, wondering why you’d leave that night. I thought to look for you, went back to our park but you weren’t there.”

Her heart twinges when he says _our_ \-- in fear or in affection, she does not know. His voice is but a mumble by the time he finishes, his lips curving downwards as he watches her, as though hoping the answer to his question lies in her eyes. She feels her cheeks warm once more, remembering all the times she had turned away from the park, taken the long way to work instead, irritated that he had caught her out so easily.

He smiles then, a hollow thing that reminds her again of his bare fingers.

“I’m quite perceptive you see, so I knew you were avoiding me. And I know that we are but acquaintances at best or perhaps even less--”

He’s begun to ramble, his sentences running on even as they get more disjointed as he continues. His eyes fall away from hers, looking at the ground instead.

“--and that I have no right to expect anything of you, especially given that you are now aware of my history and--”

“Captain, listen I--”

Her whisper seems to snap him out of it, his eyes focussing on hers once more. He shakes his head before he straightens in his seat. The first few bars of a new song at the piano filling the silence between them.

“I shouldn’t have said all that. I apologise, but please if you or I--”

He gestures at the door, his hand falling back almost immediately to his side and god help her, she just wants to take it.

The music picks up behind them, the song moving into the chorus as the men start to sing louder.

_Oh, we don’t want to lose you but we think you ought to go._

_For your King and your country both need you so._

More and more join in as they continue, the song filling the corners of the pub. She is distracted for a moment as she turns to look at the men by the piano. Young things, as they usually are, singing about the lovely war. She doesn’t know if they are truly excited or perhaps merely comforting themselves with the words they sing.

_We shall want you and miss you but with all our might and main_

_We shall cheer you, thank you, kiss you, when you come back again._

She doesn’t see it happen but suddenly his voice is at her ear, loud and steady as it rings above the singing.

“Half of you lot won’t even make it back, lads. No one to thank you or kiss you when your leg’s been blown off, eh?”

It takes a moment but the singing begins to dim, starting from where they stand and slowly filtering outwards as people begin to realise what has just been said. A few muttered curses filter through to her ears, the men at the piano looking up, their eyes scanning for the voice, their glasses placed on the table closest to them.

She can see the crowd begin to speak in low tones, moving away from the bar, from Captain Jones who is now all but grinning in the direction of the piano. 

It is when one of the singers starts stalking towards them, a scowl twisting his lips that she moves. Her body acting without thinking as she grabs his hand, her other going for his coat as she pulls them towards the exit, mumbling apologies and excuses to anyone she crosses on their way out.

“Emma, wait!”

She turns around just as the little bell rings, the door half open.

“Here, it’s freezing out there.”

Leroy’s hands come up to place her hat on her head, a little crookedly as he tries to manouver it in place. She smiles at the frown on his face before turning back to the man whose hand she holds, his eyes a little wide as he loosely grips her hand back.

“Thank you, Leroy.”

“Of course. Now go. I’ll not have a fight in here.”

His voice drops as he continues, “Try and take care of him if you can.”

She can only nod in response.

* * *

The door closes behind them and the cold rushes at him with all the force of a hammer to the face. Wind suddenly bites at his cheeks, his ears, blowing clean through his clothes as he realises that his coat is still in her hands.

That his hand is still in hers.

It is as though her fingers closed around his are his only source of warmth, her body beside his calling for him to lean closer, to fall into the light of her. They start walking along the street that leads them out of the tiny one where the Warren House is, him following her lead, stumbling once or twice as they go.

Another gust of wind flies through his hair, ruffling it and stealing his breath for a moment. She must notice the shiver in his shoulders, the way his hand squeezes hers for she drops his fingers as though burnt, her hand reaching up to fix her hat even as she hands him his coat with the other.

And he cannot help the small curve of his lips as he sees the flush in her cheeks when she does.

The rum burns through his veins yet, his movements stiff as he tries to control them, as he tries to walk in a straight line, as he tries to stay upright. But the cold is doing a fine job of clearing the haze in his head, his own cheeks flushing now as he realises the depth of what he’d done back in the pub.

“Captain Jones, where do you live?”

Her voice surprises him, his shoulders jumping as he turns to look at her.

“What?”

His voice is a croak, rough suddenly, his words stuck in his throat. She looks straight ahead as she walks, rubbing her hands together as he struggles into his coat trying to follow her.

“Where do you live? I will not have you be run over or passed out in a ditch somewhere.”

“Miss Swan, I apologise for my behaviour but I assure you, it’s not necessary--”

“Where do you live, Captain?”

“Not too far from here. But please, let me escort you home first--”

“I live three hours from here, Captain. I am worried you won’t be able to handle it.”

Her voice is curt, a glare directed in his direction as she blows on her hands before roughly sticking them in her pockets. His eyebrow rises as he smiles once more, a flash and it is gone as he watches her glance back at the Warren House and then stare sullenly at the ground.

So caught up is he in her that he all but trips on an uneven bit of pavement, her hands suddenly on his elbow keeping him from falling face first.

He chuckles then, the buzz of alcohol still muddling his thoughts, and he finds himself grateful that she has allowed him to be next to her. Even if she doesn’t particularly want to talk to him right now. 

He has the good form to look away as soon as she frowns at him, rubbing her hands together and blowing on them again.

“Your gloves--”

His smile falls away instantly, another rush of cold grounding him, bringing him back to the here and now.

“Yeah, I think I left them back at the pub.”

She kicks a stone, her head still turned forward as she avoids looking at him and his heart aches in guilt, in shame. He shouldn’t have--

“I do apologise Miss Swan, I did not mean to--”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s just go.”

He falls into silence, his brow furrowed into a frown as he finally gets his coat on, his hand sinking into deep pockets and finding the crushed bit of wool hidden in the depths of them. Still quiet, he offers them to her, his hand extended towards her until it is in her field of vision.

She stops walking a moment, surprised, but his heart skips when she allows herself a tiny curving up of her lips, her hand reaching out to take the gloves from him.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, Miss Swan.”

He smiles softly at her in return before turning away, his eyes on the road now too as he begins to turn them toward the river, his hand and wrist pushed into his pockets. He can hear the slight scratchy sound as she pulls on his gloves, loud despite the noise in the streets. 

And he cannot help but look back at her, his heart drawn to her, helpless  once more . He smiles softly when he sees her, her hands far to small for his gloves, lost in the fabric as she shakes her head and puts her hands back in her pockets, her eyes straight ahead again.

They walk in silence for some time, their breaths beginning to puff out in little clouds of steam as they do, the night rapidly approaching, the cold closing in. 

But the longer he spends in the cold, the more his head clears and the easier it becomes for the world to come crashing down around him, as he realises all the things he had forgotten in his haze of rum and Emma Swan. 

He is to go tomorrow.

Finally, it was happening.

He has been prepared to go for months now but each time that he steels himself, each time that he packs his bag, he gets a letter. Each one shorter and more vague than the last but each saying the same thing. That his deputation had been postponed to a future date, that he was to standby for further instructions.

He would then get a new date, only for it to get pushed forward once more. 

But this time had been different. Three weeks ago, when he was to leave for the front, Robin had written to him, telling him about the problems the programme was facing getting started. That the government didn't deem it essential to send an artist to the front and so, were taking every opportunity to derail it.

But now, since Kennington's exhibition of his painting inspired by his turn in the war had gained so much attention, they had changed their tune. It was confirmed now, that he was to go. 

This was it. 

It would not change.

_I wish you luck, my friend. Stay safe and may God be with you._

He is to go tomorrow. 

But he decides that he will worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes. For now, Emma Swan walks by his side and he wonders what fortune has allowed this to happen for him. He clears his throat, pulling his coat even closer as a rush of wind blows past them.

“Miss Swan?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like for me to escort you home?”

She stops walking, her hands still inside her pockets as she turns to look at him, her brow knit into a frown as she speaks.

“Captain Jones, I am quite capable of taking myself home. It is not quite that late yet.”

“Of course. I am sure that you are Miss Swan. I meant no offense. Just trying to be a gentleman.”

He smiles then, tilting his head to the side as he waits for her reaction. She tries and fails to stifle her own smile, her frown now softer even as she yet tries to appear stern.

“I am no lady, Captain.”

She raises her eyebrow, her eyes still shuttered as they have been all night but just as she finishes speaking, he swears that he sees a little sparkle of mischief in them.

“Just who are you?”

His words are spoken on a sigh, his breath puffing out in front of him as he does. She only offers him a small smile and turns around and as it often happens when he is around her, he is taken by surprise by the urge he has to paint her.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

She has taken a dozen steps before he catches up to her and she never does hear his whispered answer.

“Perhaps I would.”

* * *

_Port of Boston, USA_

_Spring, 1903_

She feels out of practice. Hands stuffed into her pockets, bouncing on her heels, her heart beats faster more in fear than in anticipation, more in apprehension than thrill. Her coat sweeps the ground as she ducks back into the shadows, trying to melt into the darkness as she watches for a target.

In the dark she could almost pass for a man, her frame hidden under baggy clothes. A large brown coat that sweeps the ground and a scarf tucked around her neck hide her curves from view, a cap with her hair pinned to the inside keeps her golden waves hidden. It is an appropriate disguise for a woman who made her living making wealthy pockets lighter.

But here, at the gate of the Lenox, amidst the beautiful people that move in and out-- their clothes glittering, their smiles blinding, music and laughter and light filling streets for flashing moments whenever the doors opened-- she stands out more than ever and she finds herself wondering how she had managed this before. 

Did her palms not get sweaty? Did her heart not beat wildly? Did her belly not churn so?

Perhaps it did. 

But perhaps before, she had found it exciting. Before she had opened her heart and allowed it to be shattered, before she had said goodbye to the baby who could have been hers.

Before.

He’d met her on the streets, the boy who had promised her forever. Clothes as tattered as hers, heart as lost, he’d caught her in the middle of a lift, distracting the woman whose purse she’d been trying to steal just as she was about to be caught. She’d thanked him then but he’d only asked for one thing in return, that she work with him.

And somehow over just a month, he had opened every door in her lonely heart, leaving a mark on every wall and corner. He’d whispered promises of home, safety, _family_ between kisses stolen in dirty alleyways under starry skies dimmed by smoke. He’d gotten her to try riskier heists, gotten her blood to sing as they ran away from the gates of a glitzy hotel, their pockets thick with cash, her hands jingling with stolen jewellery. He’d loved her and gotten her to love him in return.

She’d felt safe for the first time in as long as she could remember but it had all come crashing down.

On a moonless night in the spring, they had been walking along an empty road by the docks, stopping to press heated kisses against the lamp posts that lined the streets when suddenly there he was. Silver in his hair and a frown upon his brow, his lips curled into a scowl as he called for him.

_Neal! What are you doing? Where have you been?_

She’d stopped, her heart racing as the man had gotten closer, his outline getting clearer on the foggy night as he passed under the street lights. And as he came to a stop beside them, pulling Neal’s arm away from hers, she had finally seen it.

They had the same eyes.

He’d gone that night. Walked away with his father, spilling apologies on the ground as he went, telling her he had just wanted to be away from his family, that his father hated him, that all he’d wanted was to be with her.

The grey stones on the street had grown blurry as her tears had fallen, her eyes never meeting his as he finally disappeared. Leaving her with a broken heart that she knew not how to bandage and when she found out a month later, a child she knew not how to raise.

“Come on my good man, you can take me can’t you? It’s not that late after all--”

“Sir, the horses are tired, I cannot--”

The voices pull her out of her thoughts, getting louder as they speak. She turns and sees a man in a grey suit, a thick black coat thrown over his shoulders standing by a hansom cab, his chin raised as he argues with the driver. The driver looks upon the man in exasperation, trying to calm his impatient horse, his hand pulling back on the reins softly as the horse scuffs its feet against the ground, neighing in displeasure.

“Don’t you want to make some extra fare? I am willing to throw in a little extra something--”

The man leans in, his feet stumbling upon the cobblestones as he tries to remain steady, hand reaching up to the driver’s shoulder. The driver takes a small step back even as the man gets closer, his mouth right by the driver’s ear as he tries to whisper, failing miserably as Emma hears every word he says.

“I won big time tonight at the secret--,” he stops to put a finger upon his lips, “Shhh, don’t tell anyone. But I won _big,_ ** _big_** time at the card game tonight and I am happy to share my good fortune.”

She’d found her mark. Hotels like the Lenox were always a ripe hunting ground; men walking home, smug, happy, and unsteady on their feet, their winnings tucked into pockets that bulged tellingly were easy targets for her charming smile and nimble fingers. Emma begins to creep closer, her steps light even as her heart pounds a breathless rhythm against her ribs.

“Sir, like I said, I cannot strain the horse anymore. I apologise but--”

The man interrupts the driver again but Emma no longer hears him, only watches the man’s body as he leans back, his chin rising in anger, his hands rising as he gesticulates, her pounding heart drowning out all his words.

She used to be better at this. Probably her best right after she had realised that she was carrying Neal’s child, anger and desperation fuelling her desire to make as much money as she could while she was able. 

She had done it until she couldn’t. 

Her heart that had been beating steady with the fire of betrayal burning bright within her had finally gotten tired, the flame going out with a hiss one night as she had lain alone in a strange bed, a cracked window letting in a sharp, cold breeze, her hand on her belly as her baby kicked.

He had left her, but she wasn’t alone.

And as the tears had finally fallen down her cheeks, she had vowed that she would do her best by this child she was to bring into the world.

In those early months, when her slowly swelling belly could be hidden behind baggy clothes and ill fitting coats, she had stolen enough to feed herself and find a discreet place to sleep for the night. Until the day she had lied her way into a hospital to give birth.

“I don’t know why you lot still have horses! The new electric cabs in New York are simply splendid! They would take me--”

She tunes him out once more, her head lowered as she steps out of the shadows, trying to look for all the world like a preoccupied worker making his way home.  Her hand clenches and unclenches at her side as she gets closer to the two men, her eyes following the man’s hand patting at the obvious bulge in his coat pocket as he continues trying to convince the driver to take him where he wanted to go.

Their voices get louder as she steps closer still, one hand reaching up to pull her hat lower and the other hanging by her side.

“Sir, I just cannot--”

She is close enough now to see the driver clenching his jaw, his knuckles almost white as he grips the horse’s reins.

“This is preposterous!”

Close enough now that she can smell the alcohol that floats about the man like a haze.

“I can’t believe that you would refuse a customer!”

Close enough now that she can reach out to his coat and just--

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

Her shoulder crashes into his, her hand reaching into his coat pocket even as he turns around to look at her, his voice slurred and angry at her ear.

But a mumbled apology and a quick tip of her hat have him pacified, his attention going once more to the cab driver. She stuffs her hand quickly back into her own pocket, her heart yet pounding fiercely as she walks away, her fingers wrapped tightly around the leather wallet. Her footsteps are deliberate and slow even as she waits, her body coiled tight and ready to run, waiting, waiting for the man to notice his missing money.

She turns into one alleyway, then two, then three before she finally starts to run. 

She runs until she reaches the docks, falling against a wall before finally pulling out the wallet and counting her money and realising all at once, that it was just enough to bring her to England.

Just enough to bring her home.

* * *

_London, England_

_Winter, 1916_

The rest of the walk is quiet, the sun dimming more and more as they get closer to his home, the air getting chillier as they get closer to the river. The streets are less crowded than usual, she thinks, the sound of their shoes crunching on the sidewalk almost deafening in the silence.

Her eyes are trained straight ahead, occasionally slipping to the right to catch a glimpse of him. He is walking straighter now, the rum clearly wearing off, his eyes looking straight ahead too, his hand and his arm tucked into his pockets, his shoulders risen as though trying to protect his ears from the cold.

She turns away quickly, afraid to get caught and it hits her, the reality of what she had agreed to do, what she had insisted she would do. She is walking at night through lonely streets by the river with a man she barely knows, a man she had been avoiding for over a month, a man her heart was still unsure about. 

And yet, she is not afraid with him. 

Her heart beats steadily, her hands warm in his gloves, her steps matching up with his as he leads her to where he lives.

“Miss Swan?”

His voice comes out a little rough, his hands burrowing deeper into his pockets as he turns to look at her.

“I live just around the corner from here. I was just thinking that if you would want to leave or--”

He leaves his sentence hanging, his shoulders rising and falling as he looks back down the street from the way they had come. The station was not ten minutes from here and was this not what she had promised? To see him home safely? 

She was just doing a man a good turn.

He turns back around to face her, his eyebrows raised in question as he shuffles from one foot to another, waiting for her to answer.

But before she can decide, before she can speak words she does not know, she is drowned out by a loud bell. 

It rings in stops and starts, nothing musical about its clanging as it stutters along, getting louder and louder. Soon, it is joined by a deep voice, too far away to make out the words but close enough that she can detect the tinge of alarm in it as it shouts out of time with the bell. She looks towards the sound, frowning as she strains to make out the words that the man speaks but she is stopped halfway by a hand on her elbow. 

“We need to get inside now. It’s a raid.”

His voice is quiet, his hand sliding away, his brow furrowed as he listens to what she now realises is the policeman with the bell who is cycling down their street. A cold chill goes through her as she starts to hear a low murmur of conversation, quick slams of doors closing, windows being pulled shut. 

And then the lights begin to go out.

“Miss Swan, let’s go. Now.”

* * *

There is no trace of the rum left about him as they run, footsteps thumping down a dark street as they join the rest of the city in trying to hide.

He finally stops at a door. Green and small, they wait before it as he fumbles with his keys for a moment. Her heart pounds anew as she keeps looking up at the sky, expecting a zeppelin to show at any moment, for a long, dark shadow in the sky to drop fire and thunder upon the ground. Her hands are freezing, her thoughts running wild as she wonders where Henry is, cursing that she had not gone straight home, hoping and hoping and hoping that her family is okay, trying to tell herself that they were too far away to be affected by this.

Captain Jones mutters a curse beside her before finally, there is a click of a lock and he is ushering her inside. She takes one step in and stops, suddenly blinded, darkness consuming her vision. He has the curtains drawn, the inside of the house somehow darker than the night outside and she takes a moment to adjust until eventually soft silhouettes of his furniture become visible in the light that sneaks in through the cracks in the curtains.

“Apologies, Miss Swan.”

His voice is tight, low. He holds himself tall, his body stiff as he walks past her, dropping his coat on what she assumes is a chair on her left, a small puff of air brushing against her side as it lands on the wood. She continues to stand still, watching him effortlessly cross the room and slowly pull one curtain open, allowing a thin ribbon of moonlight to stream into the room.

He stands against it, his profile outlined by the light, making his edges glow as he looks up for a moment before allowing the curtains to fall shut, hearing a soft ruffling noise as they do. The policeman is still shouting his warnings for the raid, his bell getting louder as he gets closer to Captain Jones’ door. 

And she hopes again, her hand clenched at her side, her belly churning in panic, that Henry was home, that her father had gotten them all inside, that perhaps the raid would not even touch them.

“We should get downstairs.”

He stands across a table, or at least she thinks that he does, the closed curtains impairing her vision once more. But nevertheless, she begins to walk slowly--one careful step then another, her arms outstretched-- towards him. 

But she only takes four steps before there is a low thump and then a shooting pain up her leg.

“Ow!”

Her exclamation is loud in the quiet room, the policeman’s bell now fading away as he goes to warn others. As are Captain Jones’ footsteps as he bounds towards her.

“Miss Swan, are you alright?”

She gasps, bending over to grasp at her knee, the pain slowly fading to a dull pulsing where she had knocked into the edge of his table.

“I’m--ok. Just a little bruised.”

“Apologies, I should have--”

“That’s alright, Captain.”

She straightens and reaches her arms out once more, trying to get her bearings but this time, her hands land against soft fabric.

“Let me help. I know this house like the back of my, well, you know.”

Her lips curl into a smile despite herself and even though she can’t see him, she knows the wry curve of his mouth, the sparkle in his eyes.

Her hands had landed at his forearms, just brushing against the fabric of his shirt. She feels his fingers against her elbow, slowly dragging along the back of her arm until he reaches her hand to grasp it.

Leaving a sparkling trail of heat whenever he’d touched.

His fingers are looped lightly around hers, their contact gloves to skin and somehow, it feels _less_.

“Shall we?”

She forgets for a moment that he cannot see her and only nods in response.

* * *

There is an eerie silence about them as they walk down the stairs to the basement. The policeman’s bell has now faded away completely. The world seemingly caught in a strange moment of strangled calm as they all wait for the explosions to begin, as they hope that the flames that are to rain upon them somehow miss them, as they hold one another close, praying to see another sunrise.

She still holds his hand as he walks a few steps ahead of her, careful in leading her down. He waits at the foot of the stairs as she takes her last shaky steps to the basement floor.

“You’re alright?”

His voice is a whisper now, as though trying to not to disrupt the quiet. She only hums in response, the darkness suddenly too much, closing in on her, her breath coming in deep exhales as she waits for her vision to adjust once more.

There is a pull on her hand as he begins walking, his arm reaching out to find the wall, she thinks. There are no windows to let in a crack of light but the door upstairs remains open and as her eyes finally get used to it, it is just enough that she can make out the blurred outlines of him as he walks in front of her.

She follows him easily, her fingers only gripping tighter when he slides down the wall to sit on the floor. 

They sit with their backs to the wall, legs outstretched in front of them, their joined hands resting half on her leg and half on his, a silent agreement to not let go.

But the silence does not last.

The explosions begin softly, like the opening notes of a bloody symphony, only to pick up speed, getting louder until she is jumping at every new one. Her fingers tighten around his as they wait together in the darkness, as she desperately pushes away thoughts of broken bodies and anguished shouts.

It is quiet again for a long moment and she thinks that maybe, maybe it is over.

But the respite is broken by a new set of explosions, her eyes squeezing shut as though trying to make them stop by pretending they weren’t there. She shuffles closer to him, chasing his heat even as she tries to chase away the phantom screams that plague her mind, memories from nights spent at the front in the aftermath of _this_.

Her breath is caught in her throat, her body coiled tight but then, his hand squeezes hers. 

And he begins to speak.

“Her name was Milah.”

His voice is a rough attempt at best, echoing softly in the room but it fills the silences between the loud roars outside and almost covers them up. He does not look at her, the profile of his face a hazy line as he looks straight ahead.

“I was in love with her. I was in love with _everything--_ young and free and more than a little bit reckless.”

He chuckles softly, his shoulders brushing against hers as he does. She feels like she should pull her hand away, her heart far too close to his as he chooses to open it to her. 

“I was her tutor. She’d put an ad in the paper and I’d responded. When I first met her, she told me that she had always wanted to run away. But since she couldn’t, she wanted to at least learn how to escape with a brush.”

But the screams in her mind begin to fade, replaced instead by the deep timbre of his voice and it is a relief she is willing to embrace, her back sinking deeper against the wall as she listens.

“Her husband was never around. A navy man--much older than her. He had a son from a previous marriage already who was in university. There was something about her--”

He pauses a moment, the line of this throat just visible as he swallows before speaking again.

“The first time she managed to paint a tree that actually looked like a tree--” He laughs then, his shoulders rising as he shrugs. “She laughed and-- she was just so beautiful.”

His voice only gets softer as he continues, as he tells her how she had fallen ill, as he tells her how he had never really known what it was that had made her so weak. How she’d sent all the servants away one day because she’d wanted to spend some time with him.

How he had been the only person in the house when she’d collapsed. 

“I took her to the hospital and _he_ found me there. We had never-- we never had the time to truly be together, Miss Swan--”

She startles when he speaks her name, his eyes trying to meet hers across the darkness as he continues. 

“But when she died that day, I felt as though someone had ripped my heart from my chest.”

He is silent a moment, still looking at her as he waits but she knows not how to answer him. Her heart lies heavy in her chest, feeling a far away sadness for the woman he had loved, for the man who sits beside her now. 

She is glad for the darkness for it gives her courage even as it hides her away as she shuffles a little closer and squeezes his fingers. 

She thinks he may have smiled before he looks away once more.

“I loved her. Perhaps when I shouldn’t have. But I did, and I never got to say goodbye--”

The words roll off his tongue so easily. 

_I loved her._  

He speaks it as though it is one of the only truths he knows and her breath hitches in her throat.

Another explosion rings outside, pulling her attention away, her breath releasing in a whoosh. But it is further away now, no longer loud enough to startle them, his voice enveloping the sounds easily.

“And that was it. The rumours spread and they thought that I had _hurt_ her somehow--”

His voice cracks as he speaks and her fingers only grip his tighter, trying desperately to show him that she understands, her chest aching for him.

“And I couldn’t bear to hear them. So I--”

He pauses a moment, his hand untangling from hers as he pulls away, his injured arm pushing back his sleeve to reveal the full length of the tattoo she had only glimpsed that first time she had met him. 

A heart with a dagger through it, her name carved on the blade.

_Milah._

“It was defiance, I suppose? But, I tried to forget and lose myself in drink, in gambling. I am not proud of the man I had become but Liam eventually found me and convinced me to leave--”

His sleeve drops back into place, covering the tattoo once more even as his hand rests on his outstretched leg now, only inches from hers. 

“I just thought that you might want to know.”

She realises then that the explosions had stopped. Her comfort is small for her belly still twists with thoughts of Henry and her parents, but his voice had filled the spaces in her mind where the screams lived for a time and she couldn’t help but be grateful to him for that.

When she turns to look at him, she finds him facing her, a wry smile on his face, his hand clenching on his lap as he waits once more. For her to pass judgement perhaps, for her to tell him that he had broken a family, that she could not trust him but the words never come. Her heart only aching to take his hand once more.

And for once she listens to it, her fingers swimming in his too large gloves reaching out to wrap around his.

“Do you have candles down here?”

This time when he smiles, she is sure that he does, the whites of his teeth just visible, his whole body sagging in relief.

“Aye.”

* * *

He asks her to stay by the wall as he shuffles about the room, an occasional thump or crash punctuating his movements as he tries to find the candles. She’d lost sight of him after he’d taken a few steps out of the narrow cone of dim light coming from the upstairs door.

“Found them!”

His voice seems far away, echoing off the walls as the silence after the raid continues on outside.

There is a small click of a match, a hiss of a flame and suddenly she can see again.

The room is much larger than she had expected, her eyes following the multiple boxes that litter the floor near where he stands, the almost clumsily large wooden table that lies between them, a few chairs that were clearly part of the same set scattered about the room. One is stacked upside down upon another, one resting quietly in the corner as though waiting for someone to sit on it and a last one a few steps in front of her, abandoned in the centre of the room.

When she finally looks back at him, he is looking away, his eyes following where her gaze had been as he looks around.

“I-- after Liam-- I put some things away.”

He stands with the matchbook in his hand, the candle in a candlestick on the table, his face lit by the soft light of it, flickering softly as he breathes. 

He meets her eyes once more and shrugs as though in apology, putting the matchbook down and picking up the candle, his face more visible to her now as she begins to make her way towards him, taking care to avoid the chair and walking around the table, her fingers floating above its dusty surface.

“I understand, Captain.”

Her voice is low as she comes to stand in front of him, close enough to touch as she remembers her own box of things from _before_ hidden away in her attic.

The candle lies between them, its flame fluttering in time with their breathing and just like that the ease they had shared in the darkness coils tighter and tighter until she finds that she cannot meet his eyes anymore. Her gaze wanders to somewhere behind his shoulder where the light of the flame begins to blend back into darkness and then, she sees them.

“Are you alright Miss Swan?”

“Are those yours?”

She gestures with her eyebrows, her head tilting in the direction she had been looking. He turns around quickly, the flame of the candle swaying dangerously as it makes visible the small group of paintings clustered in the corner, leaning against the wall.

“Aye. I thought I would put them away since I am to go tomorrow.”

She feels a pang in her chest, her hand extended towards the candlestick.

“Would you mind if I--”

“No, of course not. Mind you, they’re not very good.”

She can see his eyebrow rising in the candlelight, half a smile on his face as he hands the candlestick to her. She cannot help but smile back, her heart so much easier about him than it had been in the last month. 

And though the thought still causes an uneasy twinge in her heart that makes her want to run, it is too small today in the face of his shy smile.

Her fingers brush his briefly as she takes the candlestick from him, the cold of the metal burning through the heat of his gloves.

She begins to walk closer, her footsteps echoing now. His own quieter ones following her. 

Inhaling sharply as soon as the candle brings them into view, she sees that almost all the paintings are of the water. There are ships and wrecks and terrible battles. All painted in rich deep hues, the movement of the ocean almost tangible as she leans closer, bending slightly at the waist, careful to keep the candle away from the canvas, her hand coming out to touch.

She shoots a questioning glance at Captain Jones, asking for permission and though his face is dimmer now outside the candles’ circle of light, she can see him nod his assent. She takes a moment to pull off his gloves, using her fingers to pull off one glove and then another, trading the candlestick between her hands.

The painting she stands in front of now, is of a wreck, the ship falling half into the ocean as fire licks at its edges, blood pooling and staining the water even as the moon shines brightly above, stars twinkling softly in the sky. The paint is raised where the waves are, little flecks of white on their crests, her fingers going up and down the peaks and valleys of the surface of the painting.

As she continues down the line, she realises that the ship is the same one. The wreck the same. Again and again from different angles. 

Her chest aches softly as she realises what it was that he had been trying to capture, the ache only worsening as she gets to the very corner of the room.

It is a man facing straight ahead, a portrait up to his shoulders. Soft brown curls swept away from his forehead, kind eyes and a smile on his face that reveals the crinkles by his eyes, shadows of Captain Jones’ face upon his.

_Liam_.

She whispers the name, strange in her mouth and again the unease in her chest builds. She is too close, too close. But it is quickly pushed down by the sound of his voice.

“Aye.”

She straightens, avoiding his eyes even as she has to fight her instinct to try and soothe the pain in his voice. She begins to round the corner instead, but before she can take a step, she feels his hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

She turns back to look at him over her shoulder, her eyebrows raised, her gaze questioning. He is silent though and only searches her eyes as though considering something before sighing and letting go, lowering his arm. Her brow is furrowed as she turns back around, taking one step, then another as she comes around the corner, the light of the candle now shining on a large painting against the wall. 

It is larger than anything else she has seen in this room, standing about as high as her waist as it rests on the ground. Painted in rich greens and vibrant golds, it is brighter than any of his other work.

But what makes her heart thump wildly, has her breath caught in her throat is that it is a painting--

\--of her.

The woman in the picture is looking up, her eyes following some far away sight outside the painting, her smile wide, her eyes sparkling with joy and Emma sucks in another breath, her eyes lost in the colours of it. The green of the her eyes looking as though they were gemstones, her dress a delicate white lace, but it is the gold that has her trapped. The soft waves of her hair look as though they could lift off the canvas, little flecks of brightness showing her where the sunlight reflected off it.  

And painted in a soft golden blonde. The same shade of yellow she had seen stained on his fingers all this time.

Close enough to the painting to touch, her hands tremble as her fingers trace the edges of the smile of the woman in the painting, of herself in the painting.

“What-- Captain--?” 

His voice is close behind her, unsure as he starts and stops, trying to answer her.

“I apologise, Miss, but I-- it was just a--”

She straightens, dragging her eyes away from the painting to look at him, her mind in a tumult even as she fights back the lump in her throat. He steps closer, the candle flame dancing as he sighs, taking a deep breath before he continues. 

“Painting your smile-- it made the rest of it a little more bearable is all.”

She is silent for a moment, her cheeks burning, her eyes blinking back the tears that have not yet fallen as she tries to find her voice to respond. But he waits patiently, his eyes steady on hers as he does. His calm is betrayed by the slight clench of his jaw, the way he fidgets with his fingers, rubbing them against one another as though looking for something to hold on to.

She begins to respond.

“I--”

She tries again--

“It’s alright--”

\--but doesn’t get very far. Her words are caught in her throat as she tries desperately to find them, only to lose them again as they drown in the tears that wait behind her eyes.

So she stops trying. 

Choosing instead to lean in close, her lips pressing softly against his jaw, a breath away from his own lips. His skin is softer than she had imagined, freshly shaved for the front, his breath soft against her shoulder as he sighs, leaning into her, his head bowing. Her forehead rests against his cheek as she pulls away, as she mumbles into the space between them.

“You’ve made it bearable for me too.”

They linger a moment, breathing steadily, standing completely still as though afraid to shatter the silence. The candle continues to flicker softly in her hand even as her other hangs by her side. 

But the silence is broken by a sharp thumping sound as someone runs on the street above them, their footsteps loud and insistent. He stiffens at the noise, his arm coming up for a moment to brush against her side before falling away.

Emma takes a deep breath, taking in the scent of him. Something rich and earthy, a hazy layer of the rum he had imbibed layered on top. She presses the tiniest bit closer before pulling away entirely.

“I should go.”

He looks as though in a daze, taking a moment to register what she had said, shaking his head slightly before answering.

“Aye, of course, Miss Swan.”

But neither of them move, his eyes caught in hers as he continues speaking, the candle their only witness.

“But it is late and after the raid--I have a--”

He takes a breath, taking one step closer to her.

“Liam’s room is empty and if you would like, I could--”

And perhaps it is unwise and perhaps her heart is unready but he is to go tomorrow and it only made sense-- 

She looks back to glance at the painting, the woman in the painting’s reverently constructed smile, her laughing eyes seem to convince her.

She says yes.

* * *

She wakes the next morning with sunlight streaming through the thin curtains in Liam’s room, his alarm clock ringing frantically at her side. She slams her palm over the top of it to silence it even as she tries to rub the sleep out of her bleary eyes with the other. The room is almost empty but still bears signs of its previous owner. Pictures on the shelves, a painting of a sunset that had Captain Jones’ signature on it hanging above the bed, books piled upon the nightstand. All left untouched.

Until now.

When she had first stepped in here last night, it had felt like an intrusion. She had instinctively pulled away, taking a few steps backwards only to bump into Captain Jones behind her, his arms filled with sheets and a blanket.

But he had insisted, his hand light on her lower back as he had taken her into the room. They had been quiet as they’d put the sheets on the bed, her eyes avoiding his as they had worked. Her heart aching as she realised how close they were getting to him leaving, her mind clouded even more, standing here in the room of a man who had lost himself to the war already. 

And when he had finally wished her goodnight, she had almost asked him to stay.

Sleep hadn’t come easy, her mind drifting rapidly between hoping her family was safe and images of Captain Jones injured, bleeding on a battlefield somewhere. But eventually, the exhaustion of the day had caught up to her and she’d fallen into a troubled sleep.

The house is quiet, she thinks as she closes Liam’s door behind her, pulling her coat back on as she looks for signs of Captain Jones, but to no avail. The upstairs parlour is as bare as the rest of the house, only the essentials packed into corners, large swathes of floor left untouched. 

Or perhaps cleared away.

She walks downstairs to the living room, the kitchen. No sign of him but when she finally wanders into the dining area, she finds a tray on the table. Eggs and bread, a cup of tea on the side rest there, waiting for her. Her stomach rumbles as she walks closer, a frown knitting her brow in confusion.

She is reaching for the tea when she spots it. The note tucked under the cup, the base of it leaving a stained ring upon his swooping letters, written and rewritten, sentences struck out as he had tried to find the words.

_Miss Swan,_

~~ _I apologise for leaving like this but I did not want to wake you._ ~~

~~ _I hope you will forgive me but, I just did not know how to say goodbye._ ~~

_I hope to see you again someday._

_Yours,_

_Captain Jones_

_PS: The key is in the dish by the door. Please leave it under the mat when you go._

_PPS: I hope the tea isn’t cold._

And as she stands in his empty house, his note wrinkling in her grip, she wonders if it was not for the best that he had gone like this.

For she does not know how to say goodbye either.

* * *

 End of Act 1

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're at the end of Act 1! Halfway through this story now and I just wanna say thank you to all the lovely people who have left comments. I promise you I have most of them memorised :D Thank you for hanging around and reading and I hope you're liking it! Please do let me know what you're thinking :D
> 
> And now,
> 
> Notes, historical or otherwise:
> 
> In this chapter,
> 
> The song that the men in the pub sing is a real song and you can listen to it on you tube if you look up "We Don't Want To Lose You (But We Think You Ought To Go)".
> 
> Through the early years of the war, the British Government truly didn’t support a War Artist Scheme. The Eric Kennington was the artist whose painting, The Kensingtons at Laventie had gathered public acclaim in April 1916 (Though it was painted in 1915) which got the first official War Artist (Muirhead Bone) to be sent to the front. As I’ve said earlier, Killian isn’t really that famous of an artist so they’re sort of testing him out here and I’ve skewed the timeline a bit to suit the needs of the story.
> 
> New York was hip with the electric cars through the 1900s.
> 
> Zeppelin was the common term used to describe the two kinds of airships that Germany deployed against Britain; Zeppelin Airships and the Schütte-Lanz. Zeppelins and the Schütte-Lanz only differed in that the former had a framework of metal and the latter, one of wood.
> 
> Zeppelin raids weren’t always very successful or very accurate because weather patterns and night time flying made it difficult to navigate. Once, a zeppelin attack meant for London landed in Hull instead. 
> 
> During the timeline of this story, multiple Zeppelin raids were carried out across England, quite a few of them resulting in injuries and death on both sides as either the bombs hit their mark or the Zeppelins crashed into the sea.


	11. Ultramarine

_Etaples Base Camp, France_

_Spring, 1916_

The gravel beneath his feet crunches softly as he walks, his fingers absently brushing the tops of the tulips that grow on the side of the road, his brow furrowed, his mind a tumultuous ocean. Though he has only been here a little over a week, his feet already know where to take him when his heart is uneasy. 

The road ahead of him is empty, the sun drifting softly behind the clouds, lighting up the sky in ribbons of orange and gold as it sets. The camp has settled into a restless quiet, punctuated only by birdsong and a steady murmur of activity as the men begin to look for rest after a long day at training. Sunset has quickly become Killian’s favourite part of the day here. A respite from the constant tramping feet and shouted orders of every morning and the endless echoing gunfire of the front every night. A brief moment of calm before it all begins again.

But today, even though the camp has begun to take its rest, Killian’s mind yet rings with the words that had been said to him a few hours ago.

_“You’ve got to send one soon, Captain, especially if you haven’t written home since you’ve gotten here. I bet your sweetheart is thinking of you.”_

His belly twists softly--in longing, in fear, he does not know. But he pulls away from the feeling, wrenching his heart back as he continues forward, his hand reaching out to pull a low hanging branch out of the way of his path.

It is a strange place he’s in, he thinks. The camp, set upon a slope by the side of the fishing town of Etaples, sweeps across the French countryside as though painted on in an accidentally large brush stroke by a careless artist. It is a city of tents, endless white stretching on and around the winding roads that weave through it. Hospitals, Training Camps, Quarters and rest huts-- it has everything a man at war might need to feel as close to stability as he could, and yet.

Despite the myriad of tongues and accents and colours that fill the camp, despite soldiers hailing from all corners of the globe being stationed here, they all had the same expressions on their faces-- a sort of agitated anticipation. Though they tried very hard each evening to be merry, to be hopeful and excited, the unease in their gaze could not be hidden, coming through in their sighs as they spoke of home, in the shaking hands that gripped their mugs too hard, in the silences that filled the spaces between their smiles. 

The men were only ever here two weeks or so before being sent up the line. Young faces, eyes bright and ready to go find their glories, their last stop in France before they joined the war for real. Men who had seen it all, had been broken by it, but not enough that they could go home, sent back to fight after a little time in the hospitals that flooded the hillside, standing like sentries. This place becoming the centre of their circle, coming here to heal when they were broken and coming here to begin all over again.

It is not hard then, to believe that it had taken a few days of suspicious gazes and cold salutes before they had begun to accept his presence. A few days before they had begun to realise that though he was an officer, he had served, unlike most officers here in charge of training. His missing hand had become a badge of glory here as much as it had been a mark of pity back in London. 

It had only taken a stumbling soldier, his pack slipping from his back while on parade; one helping hand and a quick smile of gratitude; a shared cup of tea after a long day with a young man who missed home, for Killian to make a friend.

The soldier, Graham, is a quiet chap, his manner too sombre, his eyes too serious for a lad of nineteen but he had taken to Killian easily. His voice easing into a soft flow as he spoke of his fiance back home, his calls for Killian to join him for a cup of something at _Lady Angela’s_ after training becoming more frequent. It is where Killian had been when Graham had asked--

He shakes his head softly, eyes lifting from where he had had them trained at the ground. His hand moves away from the tulips, wiping the pollen on his fingertips on his knee before stuffing it into his pocket. 

It matters not how far he wants to run, for she finds him regardless.

The road turns a corner and he is faced with a large marquee, white of course, one of many that dot this side of the camp, making up General Hospital no.26. Even from where he stands he can see the splashes of muted blue dash between the tents, the nurses’ caps fluttering in the breeze as they go.

He turns away to walk off the road, a little ways down the hill side. Trying not to look back again, trying not to imagine that he'd seen a flash of golden hair, heard that rare, sweet laugh. Trying not to read too deeply into the fact that the place he found most comfort so far from home, was beside a hospital looking over the ocean that lay between him and her.

_“I bet your sweetheart is thinking of you.”_

He curls his hand around the strap of his pack, taking careful steps down the hill until he reaches the tree. His tree. He had found it on his very first day here when he had been wandering the camp with his sketchbook and pencils strapped to his back. From where he stands now, he can see the railway tracks that line the edge of the camp. Beyond them, the dunes where the men are marched off most mornings to drill, where Killian stands by them, coughing in the sand lifted by the breeze and tramping feet as he sketches them. 

And finally beyond that, lies the river, clear blue waters opening up to the sea.

His pack falls to the ground with a low thump as he sinks down after it, his eyes following the gentle ripples in the water that reflect the colours unbraiding in the sky. 

And finally, he can run no more, allowing his thoughts to go back to the one thing they had been circling for so long, where they had immediately gone when Graham had asked about writing home.

_Emma_.

It's only been two months that he's been away. It's only been a little more than that that he's known her. And yet, she follows him about like a phantom, her reflection in every sunset upon clear waters, in every flower that blooms on land marred by battle. 

Her face in his heart every time someone asks about home. 

The back of his head hits the bark of the tree softly as he leans back, his eyes closing. He's been trying not to think of her or rather, trying to think of her as a story that's ended. But that's hard to do when he'd never really said goodbye. The sight of her hair spread across the pillows in his home, the soft light of dawn lighting her face as she slept, a small smile on her face, lives in his mind as clear as it had been yesterday.

He knows not why he runs, for her sake or for his own, for fear of never seeing her again or for fear of having to say goodbye once more if he does get the chance.

He knows not why he runs but his heart rebels every time he tries.

And today when Graham had asked about home, about writing to someone, he had been struck with an ache in his heart so strong that it called for him to write to her, to let himself hope that she might write back, to let himself wonder if she might think of him too.

Her cheeks red from the cold, her brows furrowed as she talks, her fingers holding on to his, skin to skin in the light and warmth of the pub, her dress shimmering in the low light as she spins in his arms. Her image lives in the darkness behind his eyes, flashes of colour that have him clinging to them, that leave him wanting, standing alone in the ruins of their almost kiss.

A breeze blows in from the water, carrying the faintest lick of salt and the ocean, rushing through his hair, chilling his ears. He runs a hand over his face, his eyes squeezing shut as a sigh runs through his body from somewhere deep inside him. His eyes half open, drifting across the scenery in front of him even as he waits for the ache in his heart to soften, helpless to the fierce wanting that lives within him. 

Spring is fully alive along the hill, tulips in every colour dotting the landscape, his eyes drinking in their hues, so unlike the uncolours of the clothes they all wear and the sand in the dunes where the men spend their days training. The stillness of the water is disturbed by the tops of the sails of the fishing fleet returning home for the night, their shapes a silhouette against the darkening sky.

And as he sits here between a hospital filled with women that make him look twice for having seen her shadow and the ocean that lies between them, he wonders if despite his mind’s protests, his heart had really tried at all to resign himself to a life without her.

He is jerked away from his thoughts by the first shot of the night, the sound of the guns from the front easily audible here. One might even mistake it for thunder had it not been a clear night, but the shots pick up in speed and it is as though the earth shakes beneath him and he stands.

All at once, on top of the crescendo of destruction that would bring new visitors to the hospital behind him, he hears a voice. His brother’s. Soft and fierce, only just beginning to break into manhood, his voice rings in Killian’s ears as though a reprimand for--

_A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets._

Perhaps it is time he takes his chance.

One last look at the ocean, the sounds of the guns already become a part of his surroundings, he begins to make his way back to his quarters, his hand clutching at his pack.

He had a letter to write.

* * *

_London, England_

_Spring, 1916_

“They read out a letter he’d written to the school and everything _and_ they read out the names of all the boys--”

Henry takes a bite out of his sandwich, continuing to speak, ignoring Mary Margaret’s affectionate murmur to chew as he tells his grandfather about his day.

“-- who had signed up for the war and the headmaster called them heroes! It was incredible.”

“I’m sure it was, Henry.”

David shoots a look in her direction, his smile never wavering but his eyes sharing the same concern that swam in her own. They sit around the table in the library for tea, cups in all their hands and Henry still in his uniform as the sun sets behind the windows. 

Henry’s face is lit harshly by the light from the windows. All golden smiles and sharp angles, he looks half on his way to being a man already and though he has been going to school more regularly now, she has begun to worry about the things he is being exposed to while there instead.

“They talk about all the adventures--”

Henry’s voice cuts off as Smithers steps into the room--

“Apologies for interrupting but I have Miss Anna and--”

He never finishes his sentence, a rush of red hair walking quickly past him, finishing his sentence.

“--and Miss Elsa here to see you! Sorry, Smithers, you were taking too long.”

Emma stands from the table, putting down her tea as Anna approaches her, Elsa shooting a quick apologetic smile at Smithers before following. Both he and Emma smile indulgently at Anna, shaking their heads, far too used to her excitability.

“Emma! We got this at the hospital today and I was going to put it away to give to you tomorrow but then I saw the postmark and just couldn’t wait anymore and--”

A thin envelope is thrust into her hands, crisp to the touch if a little worn, dried mud and grass stains upon it from when it had perhaps been dropped upon the earth on its way to her, a soft shadow of a smell lingering upon it. Something smoky, something that reminds her of scorched earth and thundering guns.

But her eyes are fixed upon something else, the tips of her fingers tracing the ink, chasing the curves and dips of the gentle sweeping letters that form her name.

And on the other corner of the envelope, much smaller and firm, his.

Her heart is in her throat as she feels the weight of the letter in her hands. It feels heavy enough to pull her to her knees, her fingers itching to tear it open and read the words he wants her to hear. But Anna's expectant gaze and Elsa’s half apologetic smile stop her, her family suddenly feeling intrusive, as though encroaching upon a moment, a conversation not meant for them.

“Well? Aren't you going to read it?”

Anna's voice pulls her out of her reverie, her hand jerking the letter away, pushing it quickly into a pocket in her dress. But before she can try to formulate an excuse, Elsa interrupts.

“Hush now, it’s a private letter and I’m sure Emma will want to read it in private, no?”

“I--yes.”

Anna looks taken aback for a moment before her smile is back and wide as ever.

“Of course. I'm sure! Captain Jones does seem like such a romantic!”

“Captain Jones?”

Her father’s voice startles them all, her hand pushing the letter further into her pocket as she turns to face him, her cheeks unreasonably flushed.

“He's a patient,” she says quickly, her lips almost stumbling over the words. She tries to speak before Anna has the chance to say anything else, to bring out into the real world the almost-feelings she keeps safe in the corners of her mind, hiding them from even herself.

She isn’t ready for them to be spoken, to be shared, to be altered and changed by the voices of others, by the questions that would inevitably make her face them.

Her father moves to speak once more, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find his words but a quick look from her mother is enough to silence him. He chooses instead to just nod and drop his line of questioning altogether.

There is a moment of terse silence as each of the people in the room try to determine the best way to break it. They wait, holding in all the questions and queries that ached to burst forth from their lips. But they don't have to wonder for long as Henry shoots a quick look at his mother before continuing with his story as though he had never been interrupted.

“They call it the roll of honour, grandpa--”

She lets out a grateful sigh even as she wonders again at how perceptive her son is, her eyes tracing his features fondly as she sits back down, hearing his voice but not truly listening.

Her thoughts instead go back again and again to the letter that lies heavily in her pockets.

* * *

No one at home asks about the letter, though she sees it in their gazes, in their half spoken sentences how much they want to. 

She is glad, for her heart and the soft almost somethings she feels for Captain Jones are too fragile, too unsure for her to speak, for her to even consider for too long. She does not know them, does not know the curves and edges and the depths of them.

She does not yet know how to say his name.

After the morning she had left his house, she had come home and lied to her mother.

Told her that she had been asked to stay back at the hospital and that everyone was fine. The bombs had hit a few miles south of them and she was fine, she was fine, she was fine.

She had kept the chant up inside her head until she had begun to believe it. Captain Jones’ face pushed to the back of her mind, his touch scrubbed away by the cold, anything to keep her belly from churning with worry for him, her heart ache with concern and something else she did not want to name. It terrified her, made her want to want things she knew she could not.

But despite her running, here he was, he had found her. 

As she sits on the edge of her bed that night, his words tucked between her fingers, she knows that she could simply not read it, toss it in the fire and let the flames take him away and perhaps finally keep her heart from aching for--

_Killian Jones_

Her fingers trace his name on the corner of the envelope and she cannot help it. The smile that pulls at her lips, a strange, rusty feeling of excited anticipation churning in her belly, a warmth pulsing through her and she gives in.

She turns the envelope over and lingers upon the seal for only a moment, one more moment of doubt, before finally pulling it open.

* * *

_Miss Swan,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I realise that it might be a bit of a surprise to hear from me, but the lads decided last night that it had been entirely too long since they had written to their sweethearts and families and when we sat down with paper and ink, I found myself writing to you._

_I hope Henry is healthy and happy and going to school. I think of him often here, surrounded by boys not much older than him. They are filled with a zeal and optimism I cannot seem to find within myself these days. Instead, I find myself thinking of you, of your hair in the sunlight, of the white of your apron, of the curve of your smile and I swear, it is what gets me through the day sometimes._

_My arm seems to be faring well, your ointment tucked away safely in my pocket. The men are less fascinated by it here for they have seen this before, this place filled with people missing parts of themselves._

_But it is a beautiful night and the stars shine almost as bright as they do in London and I am thinking of you._

_I hope you will forgive me this small trespass and allow me to continue writing to you._

_Your Lonely Soldier,_

_from Somewhere in France_

* * *

The soft smile that has taken residence upon her face refuses to leave her her lips as though trapped in this expression of fondness as she traces over his words again.

_I find myself thinking of you_

The ink pools at the bottom of his letters there, thick little dots of colour that tell her that he'd held his pen down, thinking perhaps, wondering if he should. She can all but see him, his hand reaching behind his ear, a soft flush upon his feature before he speaks, his words low and sincere.

As she follows his letters upon the paper in her hands she wonders if writing makes one more brave, if the scratch of ink on paper is easier than making words leave lips. Perhaps it is the distance, perhaps it is being able to hide all the ways one’s body gives one away, half smiles and fidgets that betray the strength and depth and true intentions of your words.

Or perhaps it is just that they all sit together on the edge of a cliff that is ready to collapse beneath them at any moment.

She wonders if she can be brave too.

“Emma?”

Her name and a soft knock on the door startle her, her hands rushing to hide the letter away instinctively, tucking it under her pillow before standing up to face the door. Cheeks flushed, heart racing, her words come out in a rush as she spots her mother standing just outside her door, holding it open just enough that she can look in.

“You’re still up? I thought you’d gone to bed--”

Mary Margaret’s eyes quickly move from Emma’s pillow to her face as she opens the door fully and steps in.

“It’s early yet,” she pauses, her head cocking slightly as she searches Emma’s eyes, a frown crinkling her brow, “Is everything alright? You left so quickly after dinner--”

Mary Margaret trails off, her hands fidgeting with the ring on her finger as she tries to find the words, her eyes moving back to Emma’s pillow before quickly returning to her face.

“It’s nothing. Just tired is all.”

Emma feels the blood rush to her cheeks as she speaks, her hands clasped tightly behind her back itch to hide her face away, tuck the letter deeper under her pillow, hide the corner of the envelope that is peeking out, bright against her deep blue sheets. She feels _caught_ , as if she were doing something she should not be.

Her mother only nods, her fingers continuing to twist her ring back and forth as her frown deepens. She takes a step forward, the bed between them, her mouth opening to say something but stopping abruptly.

This is absurd, Emma thinks, her hands clenching behind her back as she wills for her blush to disappear, as she wills for her body to realise that she is a grown woman who has spent so much of her life alone, that she does not need to feel this-- whatever this is is-- about hiding something from her mother.

Especially since she does it so very often anyway.

(But this is different, a voice whispers treacherously, you’re only hiding this because it is about him, because this is important. _He is--)_

“If you ever need to talk about _anything_ , you know that you can come to me--” 

Mary Margaret’s voice is low and sincere, her eyes searching Emma’s as she takes another step forward, pulling Emma out of the twisting whirlpool of her own thoughts.

“Don’t you?”

The question is uttered in a voice lower still, gentle and tentative. But her heart is still caught in a rush of conflicting emotion and she almost doesn’t answer.

When she had first come here to this house that was too big, to this bed that was too soft, to this world where she could sleep warm and sated with a full belly every night, her mother had come to her just like this. She had seen the scared young woman in her home that was not her home yet and she had asked no questions, demanded no answers.

She had simply told Emma in a voice that ached to say more, that she would always be here. To talk, to listen, or perhaps to not talk if that was what Emma needed and just like that, though she had only just met her, Emma had felt her first spark of _home_.

Her voice is a little hoarse but the words come out all the same, a smile slowly pulling at her lips even as her heart calms.

“I do, mom. I do.”

Mary Margaret returns her smile with one that is far brighter.

“Good. Get some sleep, okay?”

Emma simply nods, reaching her hand across the bed to squeeze Mary Margaret’s before her mother takes her leave, the door clicking softly shut after her.

Emma falls back onto her bed with a soft thump, her pillow rising softly, the edge of the envelope poking insistently at her forearm and almost instantly, the soft calm that had descended upon her, retreats. 

Her eyes squeeze shut even as his words begin once again to run softly though her mind.

_I find myself thinking of you._

What could she possibly say to--

Perhaps she will be brave.

But as she falls asleep that night, his still unanswered letter beneath her pillow both a weight and a comfort, she resigns herself to the fact that it would not be this night.

* * *

Or, as it happens, the night after that. 

Or the one after that.

The letter lives in the drawer beside her bed, or tucked under her pillow when her day has been particularly difficult. She has read and reread, traced all the letters that make the words he’s written her a hundred times, thought about writing back twice as much. But every time she starts to write, she fumbles, her words always too trite, too sweet, too rough, too soft.

But even so, she settles into it and slowly, the letter and all ways in which she thinks and doesn’t think of him start to become normal. Comfortable. Almost immovable in their constancy. As though, if she never writes him back, they could both live in the comfort and anticipation of what could be. They could breathe soft in the potential, in the sweet almosts that lived in their hearts. As though the world would be content to wait for her while she gently cupped the slow beginnings of a flame in her heart.

But the war is built upon shaky earth and thundering skies, and the lull does not last, her world coming crashing down with a quiet rip in a sheet of paper.

* * *

One of the starlings’ wings has a rip in it from where it joins to its body, cutting diagonally across. A bloodless gash made by a careless toss of keys into the pocket where the drawing lived. The drawing that he had made her. 

The injury doesn't affect the bird on the paper as it continues on its way but Emma's fingers shake as she runs them along the tear. The fire she is sitting by warms her even as her fingers feel icy cold, turning the page over in her hands, tracing the tear again on the other side. 

Somewhere, somehow, she had begun to believe that it was untouchable. That the thin sheet of paper, folded over many many times, with creases that sliced through the birds upon it, was untouchable. That it could not get hurt, simply because it had not gotten hurt yet. 

And somewhere somehow, she had begun to believe him untouchable too.

She spends her days at a hospital, at a place where there is evidence aplenty of what the war can do, of what people can truly do when they are asked to hurt one another, where she has seen mothers and wives and sisters mourn for the men they have lost at the front, the men they had loved.

But she had thought--

She had no one in such danger, had she?

Her son and her father both, safe at home.

Surely, she did not---

But the tears that drip softly down her face as she smooths the small paintings against her skirt, trying to make the birds lay flat, say otherwise. He had become a part of her world and she hadn’t even noticed. His letter under her pillow, his paintings in her pocket, the memory of her own face smiling back at her from a painting in a candlelit basement.

Somewhere somehow, she had begun to think _herself_ untouchable too. For as long as she did not admit, did not acknowledge or consider that she cared-- she could not be hurt. But she had not known the secrets her heart had kept from her, only learning now as a tiny tear in a sheet of paper has her undone.

The war goes on and time waits for no one, and as her fingers smooth the last crease on a starling’s open beak, she decides that it is time she stops waiting too.

* * *

When she finally begins to write that night, the words that come out of her pen are hesitant. 

They seem too little or _far_ too much, the ink from her pen bleeding out the thoughts and feelings she hides most, spilling onto the paper in a rush of feeling that hasn’t gone away since the afternoon. Though she has begun to admit to herself, to her heart that she cares for this man whose smiles feel like sunlight, her heart is rusted and shoddily patched up in all the places it had been broken, unable yet, to let its walls down.

But eventually, in stops and starts, in many a crumpled sheet of paper thrown at the wall, in scribbles covering words and drops of ink dotting the paper, she writes her reply.

* * *

_Captain Jones,_

_We are well, thank you for asking. Henry is going to school for the moment but he talks of enlisting more and more each day and it has begun to worry me._

_I hope that your sketches are coming along and that you’ve been able to paint. I hear that France is beautiful this time of year._

_The stars are hiding behind their ever present curtain of smoke tonight, just like always, but I hope they shine bright for you where you are._

_Regards,_

_Emma Swan_

* * *

_Etaples Base Camp, France_

_Spring, 1916_

The letter is short. 

Some might even say perfunctory. But, it does not seem that way to him. It gives him a tether to a place and a person that he dares to dream are his home on nights when the stars hide and red stains the edges of his vision. 

He has read and reread the scant lines she had written to him, searching for something he does not know in the stumbling lines of ink upon the page. But, it matters not that he finds it, for at least he has this. He has her words, the shadow of her touch tucked in his hand. He has the quiet signs that she trusts him. Her name, her words, her home address scribbled on the corner of the envelope. They are enough to give him all the courage he needs to write to her once more.

He sits in the rest hut, surrounded by the low murmur of conversation of his fellow soldiers, rereading her letter for what feels simultaneously like the hundredth time and the first, when he sees her. It is as though she appears on the page before him, hunched over a desk by a window, the moon shining through sheer curtains as she sits with pen and ink to write to him. Her brow is scrunched in concentration, her pen tapping against the paper as she thinks, a tiny smile curving her lips when she finally finds the right words.

And he is struck with an urge he cannot ignore.

He flips over the page, reaching for the pencil tucked behind his ear and he begins to draw her.

He traces the curves and edges of her as she sits upon his page, his own smile growing as he sketches hers, a rush of warmth filling him as he maps out her eyes.

He pulls away for a moment, once his initial flurry of inspiration calms, to look at her. Something is not quite right, he thinks, his eyes running over the edge of her and around before he realises that he’d gotten the angle of her nose wrong.

But before he can reach down to fix it--

“Captain, she’s gorgeous. Is she your--?”

“Bloody hell, lad! Give a man some warning would you?” Killian’s words come out in an exclamation. Graham’s voice from behind him pulls him abruptly from trying to figure out the curve of Emma’s nose as he struggles to answer.

Graham looks chagrined as he comes around to face him, “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“Quite alright,” Killian’s voice is a mumble as he tries to discreetly sweep the letter off the table, folding it into squares, his head bent low.

Graham cocks his head to the side, watching him, a quick smile gracing his lips.

“You didn’t answer my question, Captain.”

Killian raises his eyebrow, looking up at Graham, who has now taken the seat opposite him.

There is an exhaustion about the boy’s face, about his countenance. No doubt from the grueling marching, from the cramped quarters, from the nights filled with shelling. But even so, there is still a spark of something in his eyes as he waits for Killian to answer, a happy edge to his tired smile.

Killian almost wishes he had a better answer than the one he is about to give.

“Would that I could. But the truth is, I’m not sure myself.”

He wonders if he sounds as wistful as he feels, as filled with a wanting he is still afraid of.

“I understand. I used to be the same,” Graham says.

Killian settles into his chair, his fingers fiddling with the folded letter as Graham continues speaking, his words a happy sigh upon his lips, his eyes brighter now as he speaks of the woman he loves. Killian cannot help but smile at the idea that despite the thunderous shells that fill the night, despite the training and the fallen comrades, there is still room in the boy’s heart to feel something as sweet as this.

“I never knew if she wanted me or not. She was--is--” Graham smiles then, a smile that takes all the years he has accumulated in this camp off him, soft and young and happy, “-- my best friend. It didn't really hit me until she was standing in front of me at the station, tears in her eyes and everything and I just--”

He stops for a moment, his eyes suddenly far away as Killian watches from his seat, his own smile growing. 

“I asked her to marry me right there and she said yes-- just like that!”

Killian laughs at the wonder, the quiet awe in Graham's voice, a low and joyful sound leaving his lips as he tucks Emma's letter into his pocket, patting it against his heart for a moment before reaching down into the open bag that lay at his side.

“I assume this is the same woman you told me about last time we spoke-- Ruby?”

Graham jumps as though woken from a dream, his eyes refocusing on Killian before knitting into a frown as he watches the other man rummage through his bag.

“Yes.”

A beat.

“Captain, what are you doing?”

“Just a minute, I can't seem to find my bloody-- ah! There it is!”

He pulls out a small notebook, smaller than the book he carries around when he's sketching the men for his paintings. This one is personal, meant for sketching the river at sunset with the fishing fleet coming home, the sails on the boats reflected clearly in still waters, to draw the fields of tulips, the market that ran here every weekend.

He flips through a few pages before turning back to Graham, his pencil poised on the page. 

“I wonder if you would describe her for me. I could--” he looks down at his notebook before looking up at Graham once more.

“Would you?”

His eyes are bright with excitement as he asks, as though in disbelief that Killian would draw him his sweetheart.

“I would most certainly try.”

Graham sits up straight, scraping his chair closer to Killian’s before starting to speak again.

“She is fire itself. Her hair dark and her eyes like-- like-- I don’t know what they’re like, Captain. But I swear I could live in them and she makes amazing gingernut biscuits. She's sent me some last week, they're a bit stale now but still brilliant. I'll bring you some tomorrow.”

Killian chuckles and speaks through his smile.

“Thank you, I'd quite enjoy that but let's maybe talk about the shape of her eyes?”

“Oh, of course. They're a bit like almonds maybe? But bigger, you know?”

Another laugh as he touches the letter in his jacket one last time, before starting to draw.

* * *

_Miss Swan,_

_I thank you for taking the time to write back to me. It means so much more than you know and I do appreciate it._

_I hope you and Henry are doing well._

_France really is quite beautiful, more so when I imagine how it might look when graced with your smile. But in all sincerity, there are tulips of every imaginable colour by the hill where I sit to write to you. There is a river before me, a sea beyond that and you beyond the sea._

_A man could not ask for a better view._

_The men, though initially quite apprehensive of me-- Can’t imagine why! I like to think of myself as a fairly charming man. Would you agree Miss Swan?-- have since warmed up to me and found that a good description and some conversation is all one needs to bribe me._

_I draw them portraits of their sweethearts back home. Soft smiles and clever eyes live upon my pages alongside sketches of the boys drilling, of the parades in the streets of the camp, of the stern Generals that command us all._

_There is a young soldier here, Graham Humbert, who has become somewhat of a friend to me. He is a somber sort of fellow, not much for idle chatter or joking about with the lads but he is a good man and good company. We often talk in the evenings and though he is usually as quiet as a mouse, his eyes absolutely sparkle, as does his voice when he talks about his fiancé._

_They are newly engaged and he is absolutely besotted with her. He writes her every single day! I would wonder if she doesn’t tire of him but for the fresh letter, sometimes two that arrive almost every other day. Usually packed with a little token of affection, a button from her tunic, a pressed flower and his eyes just shine with love for her._

_Seeing him gives me some kind of hope. I am not sure that it is wise or prudent or appropriate to feel hopeful in days like these where we are all so tired. But, then again, perhaps this is the perfect time for us to feel these things._

_I have tucked the most delicate of the tulips by my side into this letter in the hopes that it may help you feel some too._

_Yours,_

_Killian Jones_

* * *

_London, England_

_Spring, 1916_

Her feet make unpleasant, wet sounds as she runs through the park, mud splattering on her dress up to her knees. Her purse is held above her head but it provides minimal protection from the rain that had suddenly decided to blow through the city just as she’d gotten off the train. No umbrella in hand.

“Goddamnit,” she mutters, one foot sinking into a puddle even as she removes one hand from her purse to sink her hand into her pocket, checking again to make sure that the letter stuffed in there was dry.

It had been a rushed morning, one of those days where it seemed that everything she did was was just five minutes too late. She’d burned her tongue on her tea, just missed kissing Henry goodbye as he’d run off to school, forgotten her umbrella in _London,_ where the weather cared not if it was winter or spring or summer for it loved the rain in any season.

The only thing that she hadn’t missed was the postman, catching him on her way out as he’d waved and said that he had a letter for her from the front.

_He’d written back._

And just like that, her day had brightened just a little bit. She’d walked fast to the station, afraid of having missed her train to the city and eager to have a moment of peace in which to read the letter clutched tightly in her hand. But the universe had not deemed it so, for she had run into a friend of her mother’s on her train, forced then to make small talk even as she’d pressed the letter into her pocket, her fingers tracing the edges as she spoke.

And now, the rain.

The muddy ground of the park changes to the pavement, her feet slowing as she tries not to slip on the slick stones, her purse lowering as she walks the last stretch to the entrance of the hospital.

Her purse swings to her side, her hands wrapping around herself as the cold wind hits her face, her shoulders rising in a quiet shiver.

“Emma!”

Anna stands by the door, umbrella in her hand, quickly making her way to Emma’s side, raising the shade above their heads as she meets her.

“Thanks, Anna. I forgot my umbrella.”

“I can tell.”

Emma’s eyes are on the ground as she lifts her dress a bit to assess the damage that the mud in the park had done, but she still hears the laugh in Anna’s voice, looking up to glare at her before looking away once more.

Anna only laughs louder in response.

Emma’s hand sinks once more into her pocket, pressing the still sealed letter between her fingers, hoping that she would have a moment to herself to read it soon before beginning to walk.

* * *

She had hoped for too much for as soon as she and Anna had stepped into the hospital, they had been met with chaos. 

A convoy had arrived the night before, a new batch of injured men being treated, operated on, and passed on to recovery rooms. The nurses on shift since last night had not left, rushing between the halls with their wimples flying out behind them as stretchers rolled between them, moans and screams filling the rooms.

Emma picks up her pace as she walks into the chaos, nodding a quick goodbye to Anna as she goes, running to the locker room to get her uniform on as quickly as possible, to be prepared to assist as quickly as possible.

But even as she takes her coat off to replace it with her apron, she remembers to put the letter in the tiny pocket of her apron, carrying it with her as she goes to find the head nurse on duty.

(Carrying him with her.)

* * *

The letter lives in her pocket unopened for much longer than she had anticipated. 

The hours since she had entered the hospital had been spent in a frantic run from patient to patient, nurse to doctor, to help in any way that she could.

But her hands reach for the stiff edges of the envelope every time the faces on the operating table are too young, every time she holds someone’s hand as they say goodbye to loved ones who aren’t there, every time her tears threaten to betray her. The promise of his words, his presence somehow made real, keeps her from buckling all day even as patient after patient, man after man, loss after loss makes her heart feel as though it will burst at the seams. The letter tucked away in her apron, close enough to touch, reminds her that there is an after. That after whatever happens today, she will have his words. That after today, there would be _more_.

It takes well over twelve hours before they are done for the day. The sun is beginning to set as the last of the injured men are led to their beds, as the last of the doctors, nurses and VADs emerge from operating rooms and examinations. They walk bleary eyed and exhausted through nearly silent hallways, their shoulders slumping just a bit as they finally let themselves slow down after a day spent racing frantically against the clock, against bullets and poison and the tired and failing wills of men.

Emma walks slowly through one such hallway, her arm looped around Anna’s as she leans on the other woman’s shoulder, her gloves stained with blood, her apron covered in little flecks of red. Her shoulder sinks deeper into Anna’s, holding herself upright even as all she wants to do is fall to her knees. Anna is quiet as well, her hair falling about in wisps, her eyes heavy with exhaustion as she leans on Emma as much as Emma leans on her.

“Emma?”

Anna sighs, shuffling her feet along the floor as they turn the corner, her hand reaching out to open the door that leads out to the main reception hall of the hospital, the quiet of the hallways already broken by the murmur of activity beyond.

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever--”

Anna never finishes her sentence for as soon as they cross the threshold, they hear her.

“Please miss, you must have seen him. He’s so very tall, his hair is practically bright red. I saw his name in the paper this morning but surely, they must mean someone else because he couldn’t have--”

Anna stiffens beside her, her hand slipping from around hers as they take in the scene.

A woman stands by the reception desk. The room is quieter and more empty than it is during the day but every eye in the room is trained on the woman. She is older, her blonde hair speckled with grey, tied into a braid that has begun to unravel. 

She stands beside a VAD nurse, holding onto the other woman’s hands tightly as she speaks in quick bursts, her breathing shallow and her voice shaking with barely restrained sobs. Her eyes shine with tears that have already begun to drip quietly down her face.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s only one Eric here and he’s as blonde as they come. Would you like to sit down? I could get you some water?”

The VAD has her back to them but Emma hears the softness in her voice, the way she squeezes the woman’s hands in reassurance, turning to try and lead her to a chair but she doesn’t quite make it, the older woman stopping as soon as she’s taken a few steps-- 

“You must have missed him! There’s so many Erics, someone must have taken down the wrong name. Miss--”

“Lucas. Mrs Smythe, please, I’ve already checked with our records and the head nurse and there’s no--”

The woman keeps shaking her head as the VAD replies, letting go of her hand to press hers to her mouth as a sob escapes her, her tears falling freely now.

“He can’t have-- Oh God, no, please--”

She stops speaking then, her tears speaking for her as she finally allows the VAD to lead her to a chair nearby, her shoulders shaking with sobs. Emma feels as though she cannot look away, her eyes following the woman as she sits, her head still shaking, refusing to believe what Miss Lucas was telling her.

“Emma?”

Anna’s mumble of her name pulls her away from the scene, her eyes looking up at Anna in confusion even as the other woman is silent, waiting and looking at her as though she’d asked Emma a question.  

“I’m sorry, did you say something?”

Her voice comes out on a gasp and it is then that Emma realises that she’s been holding her breath. Her hands are clenched at her side, her jaw locked, her heart pounding a rapid rhythm, drowning out the sound in the room.

“I did-- I--” Anna frowns for a moment before shaking her head and continuing, “I was just saying how horrible it is. She’s been here three times already today.” 

She nods her head towards the woman now speaking to Miss Lucas once more.

“What a day for our new girl too. Ruby just came in this morning and--”

Anna’s voice seems to disappear, a rushing sound taking its place as she watches the young woman try and comfort Mrs Smythe. Holding her hand still, she leans forward, trying to meet the older woman’s eyes even as she looks at the floor, her head still shaking in denial, her words incoherent. Miss Lucas speaks again, her voice low and measured.

“Could I fetch someone to take you home? Maybe send a message to Mr Smythe? He must be so worried.”

Mrs Smythe doesn’t answer, her shoulders still shaking with tears, her voice inaudible as she mumbles something. Emma’s hand closes into a fist once more, her nails digging into her palms. She takes a deep breath, pulling herself away from the moment, shaking her head before she tries to speak to Anna with some measure of composure.

“She’s handling it pretty well.”

Miss Lucas leans closer still to the older woman, her voice too low now to make out.

“Yeah, she is.”

Anna’s voice seems far away as Mrs Fisher chooses that moment to speak audibly once more.

“You don’t understand. There isn’t a Mr Smythe, Eric is all I have. He’s my _son,_ my baby. He wasn’t made for--” her voice hitches, a sob escaping as she shakes her head, “--for _this._ For fighting this war.”

She lets go of Miss Lucas’ hand, hastily wiping away her tears before turning to face the other woman more fully.

“He wanted to be a teacher,” she laughs then, a small bitter thing from the back of her throat, her words broken by hiccups as she speaks, “He talked all the time about wanting to make a difference and he was only eighteen.”

She reaches out to grip Miss Lucas’ hands again.

“He was only eighteen Miss Lucas, how is that fair?”

She looks to the VAD for an answer, her shoulders shaking once more but the younger woman has none. She only squeezes Mrs Smythe’s hands for a moment, Emma watching as Miss Lucas’ own tears begin to fall.

And it is the last straw of a very long day.

Emma presses her eyes closed for a moment, her knuckles white from clenching so hard.

“I have to--”

She doesn’t finish her sentence, turning away to walk quickly back into the hospital through the doors from which she had just entered the reception, ignoring Anna’s concerned shout of her name from behind the slamming door.

Her steps all but echo in the hallways as she walks, her pace quickening the further she gets, taking turn after turn until she reaches an empty exam room. The door slams open as she steps inside, her throat tight, her chest tight, as though a weight were tied to it, pulling her to the ground.

She lets the feeling take her as she shuts the door before letting herself slide against it to sit on the floor. Her knees drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, she presses her face to her skirt and takes a few deep breaths, willing her heart to beat slower, willing the blood rushing through her ears to cease.

The room is dark, the curtains pulled shut by the last person who had been in here. But the darkness, the cold floor, the faint smell of antiseptic, all ground her. They bring her back to the present.

She is here. She is safe.

_Henry._

_Henry is safe._

But her mind is like a wounded animal, frantic and afraid, it runs rampant in its spirals of images that make her breathing quicken once more. 

_Henry Mills listed in the newspaper under Casualties. Mary Margaret’s sobbing shoulders against the open window in the parlour even as David stands beside her, his own head bowed in despair. She standing alone in the hospital as she waits to hear about him. She, alone in her big house. Alone, alone--_

_Henry on the operating table. Henry covered in blood. Henry covered in mud and soot and coughing, coughing. He can’t breathe. It’s the gas, it’s in his lungs and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe--_

She can’t breathe.

Her arms get tighter around herself as she pulls her knees closer. Her vision blurs, her heart hurts. The lump in her throat feels like it might strangle her until finally, the first gasping sob escapes her. 

And she lets herself cry.

She lets herself shake and hiccup and cough through the pain that feels like it is stabbing at her skin from the inside out, her hands on her face as she lets the door of the exam room hold her upright.

She repeats to herself again and again.

_Henry is safe. He is safe. He is at home. The war will end some day. The war will end._

_It will end. It will end. It will end._

_(I am not alone.)_

But the stabbing pain doesn’t stop. Not until she has cried for what feels like hours, her throat dry, her eyes burning, her cheeks tight from dried tears, as the last of her sobs shiver through her body. She feels oddly numb, her skin buzzing with aftershocks even as her mind finally begins to slow, pushing her fears away for the moment.

She lets her knees go, stretching her legs onto the floor, leaning her head back against the door as she wipes away the tears on her face, her eyes open to the bare ceiling above. Her hands drop to her stomach and that’s when she feels it.

She had all but forgotten about the letter in her pocket, the little envelope that still waits for her, sealed and hidden away.

And she smiles, a tiny glimmer of a thing, gone before you’d even know it was there. Her hand reaches into her apron to pull it out, her fingers running over the tiny indentations made by the ink as he’d written her address. 

She pushes herself to standing, reaching for the light switch, her hands already working at the seal of the envelope as the light above her flickers on.

She pulls the folded piece of paper out and as she unfolds it, a tiny tulip flutters onto the floor. Bright yellow and only slightly wilted, it had been pressed into the letter, the imprint of its colour on the paper. She picks it up slowly, her smile growing wider even as a few stray tears drip down her face. She spins it between her fingers by the stem, her eyes following his words.

Perhaps there is hope yet.

* * *

_Captain Jones,_

_I thank you for your letter and the little piece of France you have sent me._

_Henry and the family are well, as am I, thank you for asking. I hope you are doing alright as well._

_Hope seems a dream on days like this, but sometimes, when I see my son laugh as he throws a ball around with other children, when I see my parents, together still after decades and wars, when I receive a slightly wilted flower in the post, it feels a little less unattainable._

_I have sent a small box with this letter. It contains a few things, ointments and bandages in case you might need them. I am sure there is a hospital of some kind where you are but I thought these might help all the same._

_I apologise that I am not too good with my words for perhaps you deserve a longer letter than this. But I hope it is enough that you know, I wish only that you be well and am happy to hear from you again._

_Regards,_

_Emma Swan_

* * *

_Etaples Base Camp, France_

_Spring, 1916_

There is an unease that has found its home in his bones, it pulls at his stomach like a stone, it pricks at his skin like a thousand knives and it seems that there is nothing he can do to alleviate it.

He sits alone in the corner of the rest hut, trying his best to not be seen, his head tilted back into his chair, hand wrapped around a big cup of tea as he tries to warm himself, a crumpled sheet of paper lying by his wrist. He had spent the day at General Headquarters, made his way to  Montreuil to start work on the portraits of some of the officers that he’d been asked to do. 

The town lies along the same river that runs along the edge of the camp and though they are so close in distance, so similar in their geography, the town is nothing like the camp. Further away from the front, the colourful town is spacious, its streets lined with sweet smelling blooms. A far cry from the narrow, cramped and filthy streets of the small town of Etaples. A far cry from the endless marching on the dunes, from the gas training, the bayonet drills of the camp. Chiefly meant for officers, the men stationed there looked healthier, stronger than the faces he had left behind at the mess that morning even if they carried the same uncertain gleam of homesickness in their eyes.

And as he had sat there sketching the outlines of an officer, his pencil making quick strokes in his notebook, his subject sitting still opposite him, Killian’s mind had wandered back to the lads at camp. With faces growing more haggard each day, with voices dimming, with lines growing more pronounced on their skin, the boys he had begun to know were growing older, growing more tired with each day spent in the bullring training, with each night spent awake in cramped chambers listening to the sound of thunder from the front. 

A fear builds in each of them, an exhaustion writes itself into their bones. 

Far removed from the pretty streets of Montreuil-sur-mer.

He had made his way back to camp later that evening, a notebook full of sketches to put to colour and an envelope with orders for his next posting, further up the line, somewhere along the Western Front. His feet restless, his heart uneasy with thoughts he could not put into words, eventually, he had found himself here, sitting alone, reading over the words again and again, his mind going around in circles even as his heart sank to his stomach.

He moves to take a sip of his tea when the door of the hut opens, a sharp gust of wind winding around the room as a small group of soldiers enter. Their uniforms are creased, their shoulders slumped as they mumble their way across the floor to an empty table. Their pale faces and the occasional cough give away that they had just returned from gas training. Killian recognises a few of the lads from Graham’s battalion when he had last spent an evening with them, drawing for them as they sat around a table, sharing stories of home.

And as he watches them, the truth that had been gnawing at him all day suddenly makes itself known.

That no matter how many evenings he spent with them, no matter how many stories they had begun to tell him, there was a wall between them. A clear separation that told him that, despite the fact that he had once been at war, in this one, when the boys would be out on the battlefield fighting fire and metal and poison, he would not. That, despite the fact that he would be beside them, that he could as easily die as one of them, it would not be the same. For he would merely be an observer, a passive part of the scene, ordered to only record, not participate.

There is no will, no feeling or wish in his heart that he may fight alongside them, for he knows that on the other side of the field are only more boys just like the ones who sit in front of him now. He wishes rather, that he could send these boys home to their mothers, their sweethearts that awaited them. He wishes that he could do _something_ , anything, be useful in a way that meant something. His heart grows more and more unsettled--

“Captain Jones?”

Killian is startled, his eyes pulling away from the boys at the table to Graham standing in front of him. So lost in his thoughts, he had missed Graham entering the hut entirely. 

“Bloody hell, lad. You’re making a habit of this.”

Graham’s lips curve up in a poor imitation of a smile as he slumps into the seat opposite Killian, his face carrying the same blank exhaustion as everyone else here. Leaning back against the chair, he reaches into the pockets in his coat to pull out a small package before placing it in front of Killian.

“I picked up your post today.”

A small box wrapped in brown paper sits in front of him, a letter tied to the top of it. It is a little thing but Killian already knows, an anticipation building in his belly that pulls a tiny smile from his face as he draws it closer, already searching for her name on the top.

_Emma Swan._

Graham chuckles as Killian runs his fingers along the twine that ties the package together, his eyes tracing her handwriting on the envelope. 

“Thank you,” Killian says, his hand closing around the box as he bends to tuck it into his bag to read later, when he is alone and free to savour each word.

“Of course.”

His momentary rush of joy all but sinks as he sits back in his chair and sees Graham pick up the sheet of paper that Killian had left on the table. His orders for transfer to the front.

“Are you coming next week too?”

Graham’s voice grows quiet, his eyes flashing quickly up to Killian’s as he lets go of the sheet.

“Aye.”

Graham nods, his shoulders sinking back into his chair and Killian sees the same unease that he carries around in his heart reflected in the eyes of the man in front of him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flask, turning over the inverted empty tea cup in front of Graham to pour him a measure of rum.

“I snagged some of the good stuff when I was at GHQ today. I think we deserve it.”

Another chuckle from Graham as he leans forward to pick up the cup, raising it even as Killian pours himself one.

“To King and Country,” Graham says, his smile a strained thing.

Killian’s mind flashes back to another day, another raised glass, a pair of green eyes at Christmas.

“To going home someday.”

* * *

He swats his arm vaguely by his ear, stopping the insistent buzzing noise from whatever insect was flying near it. 

The evenings had begun to grow warmer and though the receding cold had raised more than a few spirits around the camp, the insects that had arrived with the heat had only raised tempers. 

But despite the near constant buzzing somewhere on his person, the wet grass underneath him, the rough bark digging into his back as he sits under his tree by the hospital, he cannot help the wide smile that stretches across his face as he reads Emma’s letter again.

He’d come here soon after his drink with Graham, excusing himself before making his way to the tree, following the sun as it had slowly made its way down for the night. It now floats just above the edge of the ocean in the distance, shining sharply in his direction as he holds the letter up against his eyes, her letters little shadows against the light.

Though her words are few, he cannot help but trace the edges of them over and over as if he were part of a conversation so sweet, he did not want it to end. As if she were whispering her words to him even as he sat across the ocean from her. 

_I wish only that you be well_

His thumb runs over the corners of her looping L’s as he sinks deeper against the tree, his head leaning back against the rough bark, reading her words again as though hoping that he could sink into the space between them to hear her say them instead.

He can all but see her smiling eyes as she thanks him for the only _slightly_ wilted flower, a chuckle leaving him even as his eyes close, the letter lowering to his lap, his shoulder protesting at holding his arm up for so long.

He tries to remember her laugh, the way her eyes sparkle when she does, the way she shakes her head, her hair tumbling behind her as he spins her around the room once more. But it has been too long now that he has heard it, too long now that he hasn’t seen her.

Her image is blurry at best, just a little off from what had been, just a little too long in the nose, just a little too full in the lips. It’s been too long and she seems to be slipping away from him.

Eyes opening, brows knit into a frown, his left arm takes his hand’s place in holding the letter in his lap even as he straightens against the tree to reach down into his bag to pull out his pencil, the space on the back of her letter ample to try and capture her laugh once more.

But before he can, his sudden movement jostles his bag leaning against his side, turning it over as it spills softly down the slope of the hill.

He curses softly as he bends to grab it by the strap, falling short by a little as he tries to keep the letter from floating away on the wind, holding it against his lap by his wrist. He sits back against the tree once more, picking up the letter, folding it in half and tucking it quickly into his pocket. Secure in the safety of the letter, he gets on his knees, pulling his bag back to solid ground beside him with a grunt before reaching down lower to pick up his sketchbook, the few pencils and a pen that had spilled out. 

He stuffs it all impatiently into his bag, cursing again even as he tries to ignore the familiar twinge of bitterness he feels in his heart every time he is reminded of his injury and how much it truly affects him. He begins to stand, the growing darkness and the struggle with his bag enough of a disruption to urge him to move. He sighs deeply as he takes one last look at the ocean before turning away.

His feet make imprints in the grass, pushing it down as he walks, his eyes trailing along the short blades up the slope, green slowly turning to white as he gazes out at the line of hospital tents. The sounds from the hospital grow louder as he gets closer, muffled shouting now much clearer, the soft blurred figure moving between the tents much sharper. He watches as a stretcher is pulled out of one tent, the men that carry it bending slightly at the knees as they move the unconscious soldier upon it along the line.

A group of nurses gathers under a tree, standing by the tent closest to the road, a soft circle of blue and red against the white. A blonde woman leans against the tree, pulling at the edges of her head dress to straighten it, two stand with their backs to him and a red haired woman leans softly against the tent. He idly watches their faces as they speak, flipping from one to the next, studying their expressions. Their faces slowly change as the woman against the tree starts speaking, the other nurses’ heads turning to face her, their drooping shoulders rising as they listen, their smiles growing as she continues.

Right to left, his eyes go, his footsteps slow as he makes his way up the slope to the road. Right to left, until suddenly, he sees a pair of eyes staring straight back at him. He lowers his gaze quickly, hand going up to scratch behind his neck even as blood rushes to his cheeks.

He looks up again slowly and all but stops in his tracks as the woman who had caught him watching is making her way rapidly towards him. The woman by the tree calls out to her and she turns back for a second to shout a response that Killian can't make out before continuing on her way to him. 

He slows his own pace as she walks faster, a smile on her face as she waves at him. He frowns as they get closer, her smile dropping away at the look on his face as they finally come to a stop in the middle of the road opposite the hospital.

“Hello.”

Her voice is bright if soft, her eyes meeting his as she waits for him to respond.

“Hello?”

His voice rises up at the end of the word as though it were a question, frown melting into confusion. The nurse shakes her head, her wimple moving quickly from side to side as she extends her hand towards Killian.

“Oh! Sorry, you don’t know me. I’m Ariel Fisher. I’m a nurse at the hospital.”

“Nice to meet you Miss Fisher. Killian Jones,” he extends his own hand, shaking hers briefly before letting go, his voice still low and carrying a hint of a question.

“Mrs, actually. My husband is a doctor here.”

She smiles quickly, turning to gesture at the hospital as she speaks.

“Apologies. Mrs Fisher, then.”

“No, it’s alright. It was me who surprised you.”

She chuckles softly then, his own lips curving softly in response and he watches her fumble a little for her next words before speaking quickly, her fingers fidgeting with the ends of the sleeves of her dress.

“I don’t want to overstep but I was just wondering why you weren’t using a prosthesis for your--”

She gestures at his arm by his side, looking away quickly to meet his eyes instead, her gaze earnest as she waits for his answer. His smile fades a little as he looks quickly down to his arm, his wrist ending abruptly where it emerges from his sleeve.

He had one, of course. The government had been happy to issue him a replacement for his hand. A metal hook to cover his injury, connected to a large strap on his shoulder. They had trained him too, tried to teach him how to use it. But, he hadn’t felt like cooperating too much at the time, his heart too broken, his spirit too bruised by how grandly the government, his Admiral had failed him, had taken his brother from him. So, eventually they had given up, releasing him from the convalescent home with his prosthetic in his bag.

He had brought it here, though. Despite how much he had despised it at first, despite how much it had felt like a hollow act of recompense, despite how much it had hurt to put it on-- his injury feeling as though it were on fire-- he had brought it with him. Just in case.

But did he want to--

“Captain?”

Ariel meets his eyes as he looks up again.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to--” 

Perhaps on another day, with another person, he may have felt that twinge of resentment, of anger, at the question. But not today, it seems, Ariel’s voice too sweet, her eyes too sincere for him to suspect anything other than good intent.

“No, it’s alright. I just didn’t find it very comfortable, I’m afraid.”

“Of course! I’m sorry. I only asked because, if you need any help with fitting it or anything like that, I could help. I used to work at Queen Mary’s back home and I’ve done it before-- So--”

She trails away, her shoulder rising in a shrug as she smiles at him, hoping perhaps that he understands what she’s trying to say despite her stumbling words.

He smiles too, his voice warm as he answers.

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you for the offer, Mrs Fisher.”

She shakes her head once more.

“No, no. Please call me Ariel.”

“Okay, Ariel then.”

She smiles at him again, satisfied, nodding her head at him before turning away to go back to her friends.

* * *

_Miss Swan,_

_I thank you for your gifts, they are most useful and I will treasure them._

_I am doing as well as one may hope. My heart wishes that I were anywhere else but I got word today that I am to go to the front soon. As early as next week. They want pictures of the trenches and our boys out there protecting the nation and all of that. And as always, I stand with pencil and brush, ready to serve._

_But the boys are getting antsy. I am going to be accompanying Graham and his battalion as it turns out. I am both glad and dreading it for though it will be good to have a few familiar faces around, I worry for the day that a familiar face might not return from a fight._

_Have I told you about my favourite spot at the camp? I may have mentioned it earlier but it’s just beautiful. Flowers down the slope of a hill that stands by a river that flows into an ocean. All visible from under my favourite tree by the General Hospital tents. Oh! But I could draw you a little picture. It won’t truly capture the beauty of the place, but will do in a pinch._

_I bring it up now because it’s where I usually write to you from, it’s where I come to think, to breathe. It’s also where I was when I met a lovely woman who works at the hospital as a nurse. Her name is Ariel and she has hair as red as your friend Anna’s and I feel like she talks about as quickly. She came up to me today and asked why I didn’t use my issued prosthetic. It was well intentioned, of course. She just wanted to know if I was having any trouble with it and that she could help if I needed._

_But, it’s just made me thin--_

_Apologies, it seems that I have run out of ink in the middle of a word. I hope this pencil will suffice for the rest of this letter for I don’t think I am prepared to end this conversation yet. You are such lovely company, after all._

_Like I was saying, it’s made me think about my hand and if I should perhaps try and get used to the prosthetic. Perhaps it will be useful at the front. Perhaps,_ _I_ _will be useful at the front. I feel more and more like a passive observer of something terrible, standing by while other men, far better than I, lay down their lives._

_But I digress. I am sorry if I have been a little too desultory in my words today._

_I thank you again for writing to me. It is a sweet tether to something that feels like home and I am grateful._

_Yours,_

_Killian Jones_

* * *

_London, England_

_Spring, 1916_

She reads his letter in the parlour immediately after the postman takes his leave. Unable and unwilling to wait, her breakfast lies abandoned and cooling on her plate in the dining room, her cup of tea hastily picked up, sits beside her on a small table.

She stands by the window, the sun a little dim today as the sky prepares to rain but still shining through the glass onto his words on the page. Though he has only written to her a handful of times, she finds that the flush of warmth in her chest, the small smile on her face, the rush of anticipation have become familiar friends that accompany his words. She feels young and foolish, her heart pounding over a few words of thanks, a cheeky compliment or two. 

She chuckles softly as she reads, fingers running over the ink where he’d drawn her a little picture of his favourite spot. It looks as stunning as he’d said. But as she reads on, her heart stutters for a moment, as she mouths the name of the woman he’d mentioned.

She cannot remember the last time she had felt such a pang in her chest, this sinking of her belly even as her cheeks flush in embarrassment at her own reaction. Envy is an emotion that Emma has always been familiar with, her young heart left alone too long, broken and abandoned and betrayed too often. She had always felt a twinge of jealousy when she had seen other children with their families, other mothers with their babies. The feeling sharp and acute after she had had her own childhood stolen away and hadn’t been around when her son had had his. 

So, it is easy enough for her to know that it is envy that burns through her chest and yet she has never felt it like _this._ This strange anxious stone in her belly that fears that he might _like_ someone else, as though they were-- _something_. As if they were carefree and young, as if they had never--

She shakes off the feeling, frowning now as she continues reading. Her fears pushed somewhere to the back of her mind so that she might not consider them again. It is not long before she is smiling once more, chuckling as she sees the quick scratches of his pen as he had tried to get it to work before giving it up for the pencil.

“What’s so funny?”

She is only a little startled, her shoulders jumping before she shakes her head, folding up the letter to finish later.

“Nothing. Aren’t you late for school?”

“I’ve got a few minutes. Your tea is getting cold.”

Henry stands at the door to the parlour, a smile on his lips, his pack slung over his shoulders, his hands pulling at the straps as he looks at her. She rolls her eyes in answer, smiling still as she tucks the letter into a pocket in her dress before walking up to her son.

“I’ll make myself another. Are you ready to go?”

Her arm around his shoulders, she turns them out of the room and into the hallway outside, slowly making their way to the door.

“Yes, just came to say goodbye and to tell you that I’m going to be late today. I have extra lessons with Miss Green.”

She nods her assent, pulling him closer to press a kiss to his forehead as they reach the door.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, mom.”

He rolls his eyes this time, so very similar to her own that she can’t help but laugh.

She watches as he begins to walk down the path to the main gate of the house, leaning against the doorframe to watch him go. She is just about to turn away, her mind drifting back to the letter in her pocket, to her rapidly cooling tea, when she hears him.

“Say hello to Captain Jones for me!”

* * *

No one told her that packing up a bottle of ink would be this much of a nightmare. 

A few hours ago, as she had been returning from the hospital for the day, she had found herself staring into a shop window, inks and pens and paper on display. She hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t really intended it and yet, there she had been. She had been preoccupied for most of the day, her mind running through the moment over and over again when she had realised that Henry knew that she was writing to Captain Jones, when she had realised that she didn’t really mind that he knew.

It was with that thought that she had finally gone into the shop and bought a bottle each of blue and black ink. She now sits cross legged on her bed with a few scrap pieces of cloth, some twine and a box. The cardboard boxes the ink had come in had been too bulky to pack properly so she had thrown them away, thinking that she would much rather pack the bottles carefully in some cloth and tie up the tops so that they may not spill as they made their way to France.

But making that happen was turning out to be a lot more difficult than she had imagined. The cloth had kept slipping away as she tried to tie it, the top of one of the bottles a little loose, staining her hands a bright blue in the process. 

She is trying again now, to close the loop of fabric over the top of the black bottle, letting out a muttered curse as the fabric slips between the twine for the third time when she hears the knocks on her door. A little loud, a little insistent and she smiles, already knowing that he won’t wait for her to answer before he--

“Mom?”

“Hey you, how was school?”

She places the ink bottles on the table by her bedside before standing up to walk to Henry who has now stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“It was alright. I just wanted to ask if you had already finished your letter to Captain Jones?”

She frowns a little, her eyes flashing quickly behind her to the bottles of ink before she meets Henry’s eyes again.

“I haven’t yet. Why do you ask?”

Henry hesitates for a moment, his hand reaching for his pocket and then retreating before finally reaching in to pull out three pencils, rich purple with sharpened dark tips and she is taken aback. Her mouth opens and closes to speak but she stops, unable to find her words.

“I just thought that he might need them? You said he was an artist right?”

“I did. Thank you, Henry.”

She takes the pencils from him, reaching behind her to put them on the table, reaching for Henry then, her arms around his shoulder as she pulls him into a quick hug.

“You’re a good kid.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

His voice is muffled against her neck. He smiles as he pulls away, her own cheeks all but sore from smiling and she feels an inexplicable pride in her chest. This was her son. He was going to be a good man some day.

Henry’s smile fades, his head cocking to the side as he looks at her. Her own eyebrows rise in question at him before he finally speaks, his voice low but firm.

“It’s okay if you like him. You know that right? He seems like a really nice person.”

“I-- yeah. I know.”

Henry steps forward, hugging her quickly once again.

“Goodnight, mom.”

“Goodnight, kid.”

He turns away then, closing the door behind him again as he leaves.

It’s okay if she likes him.

Perhaps it is.

* * *

_Captain Jones,_

_I hope you are well._

_Your spot in the camp looks beautiful in the picture in your letter. I am glad that you have that and hope that it brings you some measure of peace._

_I am doing alright, as is Henry. Henry wanted me to send you a few spare pencils just in case you aren’t able to sharpen them where you are. I have enclosed them along with a few bottles of ink since you said that you had run out. I hope they are useful to you._

_Ariel sounds lovely and whatever you decide regarding your injury, please know that I am certain your presence there is felt and that the men you have befriended will miss you sorely were you to go. Sometimes, all one needs to keep going is a friendly smile from a kind soul and I cannot think of another as well as you to do that._

_The hospital is running as hospitals do. We have a new volunteer and she has been assigned to me. I am to help her learn her duties until she is capable enough to do them on her own. Her name is Ruby and she is a most personable woman, always smiling, always kind. She has made the halls here a little brighter with her presence._

_I hope your way to the front is as easy as possible._

_Stay safe._

_Regards,_

_Emma Swan_

* * *

_Etaples Base Camp, France_

_Spring, 1916_

“Would you keep still, please?”

“I swear, I’m trying but this bloody strap is digging into my shoulder like a--”

“Okay, hold on, I’m going to try and loosen it.”

Ariel disappears behind him, her hand reaching up to pull at the leather that winds around his shoulder, connecting to the small metal hook at the end of his arm. His eyes squeeze shut as she pulls on the strap, a sharp pain lancing up his arm from his injured wrist, his fingers rubbing roughly against his palm on his other hand as it rests at his side.

“Is that better?”

The strap relaxes just a little, his shoulders flexing as he lets out a breath, the pain easing as Ariel comes back around to face him.

“Yes, thank you.”

The sound of a series of explosions in the distance distract them both for a minute, Killian’s eyes quickly going to the only window in the hospital tent. The night’s fighting had already begun, their very own thundering orchestra performing their favourite symphony.

And tomorrow he would be there with them.

He knows that he had left the fitting to the last minute but it hadn’t been until this afternoon that he had decided that he would use the prosthesis at all and not until this evening that he had finally given up on trying to fit it himself. The sun had been well on its way to setting when he had arrived near General Hospital no.26 asking for Ariel Fisher.

“I think you’re all done now. Does it feel alright?”

Killian breaks his gaze away from the window, his eyes focusing on Ariel once more, flashing a quick smile at her before looking at the metal extension on his arm, trying to move it back and forth, testing the limits of its movement.

It’s an odd weight on his arm and it will take some getting used to but for now, it seems to fit well and the pain he had felt when he had first put it on is beginning to fade.

“I think it does.”

Ariel nods, her smile firmly in place as she steps away.

“Good. So I think you’ll be able to put it on and take it off a lot easier now.”

“Thank you, Ariel. I really appreciate it.”

He steps down from the table, tapping the table with a soft clink with his new hook as he hits the floor.

“Of course. I’m glad I could help.”

She steps forward, taking his hand briefly and squeezing before letting go.

“Good luck out there.”

* * *

He swears that it smells like _her_.

He pulls out the letter from his bag to read it again, even as the men he shares his quarters with sleep on, unknowing of the wild knot of tension that coils in his belly this night. The light of his only candle flickers dangerously low but it does not seem to deter him, his eyes resolutely chasing the dips and curves of her ink, trying to find a sense of calm, some measure of stability as he follows her words. 

He smiles again at the pencils. He has them tucked away in his bag now, sharpened to a point and wrapped in a small piece of fabric along with the ink she had sent him. He imagines her wrapping them, arranging his gifts in the little box, her careful fingers running over these objects that have become something magical for him through the gift of her touch.

_Stay Safe,_ she’d written.

He would certainly try. 

(If only so that he is able to see her smile in person once more.)

He hasn’t written her back yet, not had the time all day to do so. But now, he sits up in his narrow bed and reaches for his bag pushed underneath it, reaching deep inside for some paper, a pen and his sketchbook. He rests the paper upon the hard binding of the sketchbook in his lap before beginning to write,

_Emma,_

He pauses instantly, his ink pooling at the bottom of the comma. He been calling her Emma in his head for a while now, the formality of Miss Swan lost somewhere between the feel of her hand in his as they danced and the gentle ease of her letters. But he had never presumed, never imposed, never thought that he might be so free in his expression of his fondness for her. But tonight feels different. He sits on the edge of something that he knows not if he will return from and he wants her to _know_.

He continues writing.

* * *

_Emma,_

_I thank you heartily for your gifts. They are a sweet connection to home and I cannot thank you enough for your kindness._

_Henry is a thoughtful lad. I am certain his gift will be most useful in the days to come. As will yours._

_It is late at night here, the shooting at the front going on in the background and I am preparing myself to begin the journey there tomorrow. But my heart will not sit still in my chest and my belly coils as I wait for the sun to rise. I am glad to leave the static anticipation of the camp where it felt as though we spent each day just waiting and watching, knowing that something terrible was about to happen but not knowing when. So in a way, getting on with it feels better. And yet, there is an unease that has made its home in my heart and I know not how to soothe it._

_I apologise that this letter is short but I promise to write again soon for I must put the ink you have sent me to good use._

_I am thankful for your letter and your words. I will hold them close to my heart in hopes that their sweetness with calm the growing storm that resides there now._

_Yours always,_

_Killian_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while? I've been dealing with some IRL stuff lately and it's delayed my Caesura schedule but hopefully, things are back on track now! Thank you so much for waiting and reading, I really appreciate it <3
> 
> And now,
> 
> Notes, historical or otherwise:
> 
> In this chapter,
> 
> Etaples Base Camp was a large Training Camp for the British Expeditionary Force. Multiple countries had their training camps set up there. Etaples was notorious for how bad the conditions were there, eventually leading to a mutiny in 1917. 
> 
> The training ground at Etaples was called The Bull Ring.
> 
> Lady Angela’s Rest Hut was a real place that ran at the camp. Aristocratic women in England wanted to help with the war effort and this was one of the ways that they did it.
> 
> The men at the front weren’t allowed to reveal their locations in their letters in case they were intercepted and so they often took to writing “Somewhere in France” at the top of their letters instead.
> 
> Montreuil-sur-mer was the General Headquarters for the British Army from March, 1916. 
> 
> Prosthetics came into huge demand during the war because of the sheer number of soldiers that were getting injured and losing limbs at the front. Antibiotics hadn’t been invented yet so the only way to treat something and to make sure infections didn’t spread was to amputate. The British government provided free prosthetics to all injured soldiers. One of the main centres for the rehabilitation of soldiers who needed them was Queen Mary’s Hospital in London. 
> 
> Killian’s hook Prosthetic is D.W. Dorrance’s Split Hook design for a prosthetic. I think the timeline is a little bit off but I claim poetic license for this decision :D


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